


White Marble

by Siana



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Doctor!Cas, Fantasy elements, M/M, Some blood and gore, a lot of hurt!Dean, badass cas, fictional universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 19:45:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 72,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siana/pseuds/Siana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fictional alternate Universe in which Castiel is a doctor and Dean is the prisoner brought in for him to treat before his execution in the arena.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “You going to fix me up or are you planning on staring all day?” The man breaks the silence and Castiel’s eyes snap up from where they’ve gone astray on the man’s defined thighs. He was a miner, and he has the muscles to show it. His one open eye is glazed over with pain, but the startling green shines through nevertheless. There are small specks of gold in his iris, glowing in the dancing light of the fireplace. 
> 
> \-------------------------  
> Hello everyone. So this story kind of went out of hand. I only intended like 3000 words when I started but I just can’t keep myself short. So yeah, have fun with this nasty piece of exploded inspiration.

He is in chains when they bring him in.

That shouldn’t really surprise him, not after Castiel had heard what he’d supposedly done. It had taken four men to subdue him, two of whom are now accompanying him; the other two are in too bad of a shape to walk on their own. Castiel would be lying if he said he isn’t a tiny bit worried. The man has almost fought off four people on his own, putting two of them into the nearby guild hospital. He’s packed with muscles, that much Castiel can see even in the state he is, and there is no doubt that he could overpower Castiel if he really wanted to.

But Castiel has been a doctor for most of his life, and he is not going to be deterred by someone’s bad reputation. It’s not like he’s defenseless either.

Castiel watches with well-practiced impassiveness as the guards deposit him on one of his beds, fastening the ends of his chains to the rings in the wall. They are rarely used; the injured that are brought down to him are usually in a state where resistance is the least of their concerns. Not to mention that their presence in the Stadium is voluntary. But this one is different, he’s not a Fighter and he has already proven that he’s dangerous.

According to the Overseer the man had been a criminal sentenced to slavery in the mines, from where he had tried to escape, injuring the mine’s slave master in the process. The Master wants to make an example out of him, so Castiel’s orders are to treat him, make him ready for battle so that he’ll provide a good show when he’s executed. He has two weeks until the Mesmeralias are over and the culmination Games begin.

Castiel never had a taste for the bloody fights held in the Stadium, especially since it’s his duty to care for the injured and the dying, as the Stadium’s doctor.

And now there is this man, a slave of the mines, an escapee who had been caught and who brought down two full grown men and injured two others, a man destined to spill his life-blood on the white Marble floor of the Stadium. The two guards don’t spare him another glance before they walk out, leaving the man at his mercy. Castiel can’t help but think that maybe it’s the other way round.

The man is dirty, that much is plain obvious, not just with the slate-grey dust from the mines, but also dried mud and blood and other things that Castiel cannot name. His hair is matted with dirt and blood, the real color hardly distinguishable from the filthy strands. He only wears a ragged pair of pants, torn at the seams and ripped on multiple spots, skin covered with the oily sheen of sweat where it isn’t covered with dirt. A thin red line around his neck shows where his slave collar used to be. Castiel supposes it is ironic that it’s his death sentence that lost the man his collar.  

There’s a deep cut over his left eyebrow, dripping down blood steadily, over the dark bruises swelling around the eye. There are other bruises and contusions on his body, some old and faded, but most are fresh, as are the multiple cuts on his arms and legs. He looks fine otherwise but Castiel has noted earlier that he’s moving with a certain restrain, as if he’s in deep pain, and judging by the big purple bruise on his chest, he has at least one cracked rib.

Considering what he’s been up against, he’s in remarkably good shape.

“You going to fix me up or are you planning on staring all day?” The man breaks the silence and Castiel’s eyes snap up from where they’ve gone astray on the man’s defined thighs. He was a miner, and he has the muscles to show it. His one open eye is glazed over with pain, but the startling green shines through nevertheless. There are small specks of gold in his iris, glowing in the dancing light of the fireplace.  

“Okay, staring it is.” The man grins, but it is strained, and it is more than obvious that he is in pain. It can’t be comfortable in his position, the chains barely have any give and the shackles around his wrists force him to sit awkwardly upright with his torso slumped to relieve the tension.

“Apologies.” Castiel quickly shakes off his daze and walks over to where his equipment is set on the table, prisoner or not, the man is his patient and he has sworn an oath to treat everyone with absolute care. He has failed enough things in his live, he will at least keep this oath.

There’s a sound of startled surprise and Castiel’s head whips around to its source. The stranger looks at him with an unfathomable expression, or maybe that’s just what the bruises formed his face into. it’s hard to tell and Castiel doesn’t know him well enough to say for sure.

“Okay, that’s new.”

“What do you mean?” Castiel eyes his equipment with disdain, it’s far from what he’s used to from his time in the guild and he has to improvise more than he’d like to, but it will have to do. But first he needs to clean the man up, or else treating him will be rather pointless. There’s a small fireplace in the room and he wisely has put on a pot with water when they brought the stranger in, it must be hot enough by now.

“I’ve never met a polite quack before.”

“I prefer the term doctor or physician if you must.” Castiel corrects him as he pulls the pot from the metal tripod and onto the stone floor. It’s cooking, steam rising and he’ll probably burn his hand if he puts it in right now, so he takes the time to prepare the pieces of cloth and the bandages he’ll need. The fire is too small to heat the room, the stone walls absorb too much of the warmth, so even when the fire is burning fully, as it is now, it’s always cold down here.

“Okay, doc.” Castiel throws him a sour glance, not quite sure if he’s trying to be obnoxious on purpose or if that’s just the pain. Or maybe it’s just his personality.

“Castiel.” He says perhaps a bit more tersely then absolutely necessary.

“What?”

“Castiel, that’s my name.”

“Okay, nice to meet you. Castiel.” He says the name with a pause, as if he’s testing the sound on his tongue and then he smiles up at him, or at least he’s trying to, but it comes out more as a grimace and Castiel notes with worry that a new layer of sweat has broken out on his face.

“I’m Dean.” His breathing has turned a bit harsh and his one good eye seems to struggle to stay open. “Excuse me but I think I’m going to pass out now.” And with that his eyelids flutter shut and he slumps forwards as far as his bonds allow.

There’s an uneasy feeling in Castiel’s stomach, he has allowed Dean’s brash attitude to not only distract him but also to fool him enough to think that his injuries aren’t as severe as they obviously are. He curses softly under his breath and dunks the first cloth in the water, ignoring the heat as he pulls it out again and quickly sets to work.

It is more difficult than it should be to cleanse Dean’s skin of all the dirt, because with every inch of clean skin he uncovers, he gets more and more distracted. His skin is tanned, despite all the time he must have spent down in the mines. He is heavily muscled and the skin is mostly smooth, aside from a set of strange scars on his lower back, three thin parallel lines and a fourth crossing through them. They’re a stark contrast to the splatter of whip marks on his upper back and shoulders, where the skin didn’t heal as cleanly. There are other smaller scars scattered on his body, all together telling the story of a life of hardships and harsh punishments, and Castiel feels his heart squeeze tighter with every mark he uncovers.

But despite all the grime - most of which seems to be older than from the most recent events - and all the bruises and contusions, it is astounding how healthy Dean is. He’s a slave of the mines, and the few Castiel has seen so far had been scrawny and malnourished, bones standing out against the stretch of their sun depraved skin, eyes hollow and useless in the harsh light of day. Maybe he hasn’t been a mine slave for long, his tanned skin suggests that he at least recently spent time in the sun, and he must have had enough food to sustain these muscles.

He had been right on his first observation, two ribs are cracked, no fracture, but close enough. Castiel’s glad that Dean is already unconscious, because he can fix them up now, without causing additional pain. He presses a folded cloth covered in salve over the bruise and wraps bandages around his chest with careful precision.  He stitches up the cut on Dean’s eyebrow next, after carefully cleaning out the wound. It’s shallow but the skin is severely jagged at the edges and he’s not going to take any risk. He really doesn’t want to know what caused the wound either.

And all the while he keeps wondering, why he’s so careful, gentle almost, and thorough in his treatment, knowing full well that Dean is not only a stranger but also sentenced to die. It shouldn’t affect him as much as he does. Eventually, everyone he treats is going to die on the Marble floor, the life of a fighter is a short one. Too few survive the five years of minimum service, and those that do are often pressured into doing another five. The man is a criminal, maybe even a murderer, if anything, he’s got what he deserved. There’s no reason to feel pity. But there’s something in the man’s eye he can’t forget, a haunting sadness, a secret covered by curtains of gold speckled green.

Castiel applies salve to the various bruises, more than strictly necessary, even though he knows that he shouldn’t waste their already meager supplies on a stranger with a death sentence. But he can’t bear the thought of doing any less, and that is a conflicted feeling in itself, because the more careful care he takes of Dean, the better the man will heal, and the more wasted his life will be when it’s time for him to die. And that’s probably the most messed up thing he has ever thought in his life. Castiel’s hand stills, where he was just about to wrap up the last of the smaller cuts, that didn’t require stitching.

It’s strange to think, that after all these years, there is a stranger on his bed - one who might deserve it - and he doesn’t want him to die.

There’s no rational reason for him to do that, but he still does; he’s been brought countless injured Fighters, all destined to die anyway, and all he’s ever allowed to do is buy them a little more time. His hands take up their movement again, finishing the treatment, while his mind is still lost on his feelings. He shouldn’t feel this strong, shouldn’t feel anything about the man, but he’s curious. He wants to know what hides behind his mask, the brash attitude and the sad eyes.

And that must be it - curiosity.

Dean groans in his sleep, face twisted into a pained grimace as he shifts, trying to find a more comfortable position, but the chains barely allow any movement. He has his hand on Dean’s shoulder before he realizes that he’s doing it and then it instantly feels at home there. He can feel the tension from muscles stretched into an unnatural position and he can feel the unnatural heat signaling a fever, radiating off his skin.

It only takes a brief moment of consideration before Castiel makes a decision. The men took the key to Dean’s shackles with them but Castiel has a few tricks up his sleeve. He takes the curved needle he uses for wound stitching and after some fumbling, the lock clicks open with a satisfying sound. He notices a strange round stone embedded into the metal of the cuffs. It seems familiar somehow but Castiel doesn’t have the muse to ponder that now.

He’s careful with removing the shackles, but the raw chafed skin sticks to the metal and Dean winces in pain as Castiel pulls his hands free. He relaxes instantly once his arms are free though, shuffling a bit until he has pulled his shoulders to the front again, and sagging to the side with a pleased sigh.

Another bit of fumbling and Dean’s legs are also freed and he instantly stretches out on the thin mattress. Castiel is distracted for a moment by the roll of muscles on Dean’s stomach as he stretches. But there is a flush of red on his skin and a frown etched into his features and Castiel shakes himself back into function. This won’t do, he can’t keep getting distracted, not when there’s a patient that needs his care.

Fever is one of the more common sicknesses he has to battle, almost on a daily basis. No matter how careful he cleans out the wounds, an infection forms more often than not, and over time he has become quite skilled in the treatment. But he’s careful to never allow routine take over care in his job, a fever is nothing to take lightly, and he won’t make the mistake of underestimating any sickness in his chambers. He collects a few leaves from his herb bag and brews a tea for Dean. It takes a long time until he has fed the whole cup to Dean, but he takes to the task with patience, and he’s rewarded by the slight relaxation of Dean’s creased forehead. It will help both against the fever and with healing.

Hours pass and Castiel never once leaves the room. Dean doesn’t necessarily need the supervision - not for medical matters at least - but Castiel is loath to leave him alone. Technically he isn’t even allowed to leave him like that, unbound and potentially dangerous, but it goes strictly against his morals to bind him when he is in this much pain.

Besides, he has a feeling that Dean wouldn’t try to hurt him, as a doctor he has learned to listen to his instincts, sometimes it decides between life and death. He keeps a cool wet cloth on Dean’s forehead and regularly checks his temperature, but so far his condition hasn’t improved. It hasn’t deteriorated either and that is a good thing. It’s not that he has anywhere else to be at the moment, no fights are held during the Mesmeralias and he didn’t have a serious case patient in a while.

Rachel, his assistant, comes in at some point to check on him and it’s clear that she disapproves of the unbound prisoner, but she knows him better than to say anything. She tells him the status of the rest of his small infirmary, but since there is nothing that requires his immediate attention, she leaves him alone soon after, throwing another scowl to where Dean lies on the bed.

And with that he’s alone again, with nothing else to do than watching Dean’s sleeping form. He looks peaceful now, the pained frown and the worry lines smoothed from his face and the red glow of fever casts an almost ethereal beauty on his features. Castiel finds himself wondering what happened to him, what crime got him into slavery, the stories behind his scars, especially the four lines on his lower back.

From what he’s seen so far, he already knows that Dean is pretty spirited, but there’s also an undeniable history of defiance mapped out on his back. But despite the countless scars, despite the disgust the men who brought him in treated him with, he’s still whole, whatever happened to him, it did nothing to break him.

He shouldn’t be this fascinated; Dean is a criminal, slavery isn’t earned easily. But somehow he can’t believe that Dean is a bad man, wronged maybe, but whatever he did he’s done it out of good reason, of that much, Castiel is sure. And maybe that should have him worried

It is somewhere in the midst of those thoughts that he falls asleep in his chair, finally overtaken by exhaustion and the long hours he has been awake.

* * *

 

Something startles him awake, but he doesn’t exactly know what. The room is dark, the fire has burnt down to embers and the oil lamp has guttered out of oil sometime earlier, but there is a presence there, unmistakably, that he can’t shake. His back hurts from the cramped position he accidentally fell asleep in, and his legs are numb from how they’re awkwardly folded under the chair.

“I thought I was dreaming you.” A voice said, startlingly rough and deep, sending a shiver down Castiel’s spine. And then he remembers; the man that was brought in earlier today, now lying on his bed propped up on his elbows, a dark silhouette against the darker wall behind him, the faint glow of embers reflecting on his sweat damp skin, where the blanket fell off.

Castiel blinks and slowly his eyes adjust to the darkness, peeling Dean’s shape out of layers of darkness. There’s still a faint red hue on his face, but the one eye he can open is clear, albeit tired. “How do you feel?”

Dean frowns, as if he just now realizes that he’s injured, but then his face lights up again as he takes in the state of his body. “Quite good actually. So I really am dreaming.”

This time it is Castiel’s turn to frown and he tilts his head slightly, as if looking at Dean at a different angle will help to understand him better. Unsurprisingly, the altered angle does nothing to clear up his puzzlement. “You’re not dreaming.” No matter how much he thinks about it; Castiel can’t think of a symptom Dean could have that would let him think he’s dreaming. Not when he seems this lucid. And his fever has clearly broken.

“You can’t be real.” Dean shakes his head and his eye is wide as he gazes at Castiel like he’s the rarest thing he’s ever seen. “Come on man, that’s just not possible.”

“What do you mean? I am very real, and you are certainly not dreaming.” Castiel insists, but the awestruck expression doesn’t disappear from Dean’s eye.

“Right. So you’re basically telling me you unchained me and patched me up, apparently even gave me the good stuff.” He experimentally pokes a finger against his chest, wincing as he prods against his bandaged ribs. It’s true though; Castiel applied some pain-soothing liniment that helps to relax the muscles and supports the healing process. He also notes that Dean doesn’t speak with the usual slang he’s used to from the people he has to treat, the dialect of the slums, from where most of the Fighters originate. He had been too busy to notice it before, but there certainly is wealth behind the way Dean speaks, however roughed up it appears at the edges.

“Dude, that’s crazy.” Dean seems to believe finally that he’s indeed awake, but that does nothing to quell the surprise in his expression. He still looks at Castiel like he’s a dream, like he can’t quite believe that he’s real.

“The bonds hindered your healing process, and the treatment I applied to your injuries is the same as every patient of mine receives.” Okay, that’s not entirely true. He used more of the salve and liniment than he usually would have, and it is certainly not part of his usual treatments to sit and wait with the patient during a fever. Which Dean, come to think of it, had shaken off pretty quickly.

Dean laughs, it’s a quick burst, as surprising as it is pleasant and then he grins at Castiel, or really, it’s more of a smirk. “It’s a shame though. The things I would do to you if I were still dreaming…” He trails off and Castiel finds himself oddly entranced by the quick flick of tongue over chapped lips, and then he has the equally odd thought to lean in and touch those same lips.

Odd.

“Now I really wish I were dreaming.” Dean smirks again, but there’s reservation in his eye now, as if he had retreated to somewhere deeper in his mind, a place Castiel can’t follow. As if he#s trying to hide.

Castiel doesn’t know what to reply to that. Technically the declaration of ‘things done to him’ should alarm him, especially coming from a man with a questionable history like Dean, but all he feels is a slight curiosity, curling in his stomach, a soft flutter of ideas long buried under years of duty. But still, he has no clue what to say to that.

“Your fever has broken remarkably fast, but I think it is a necessary precaution to check you over once again.” He’s slipped back into his ‘doctor voice’, the one he uses to convey to his patients what he’s doing, impassive and distant, as if he’s forgotten to be affable, the one that Rachel berates him for again and again, the one he can’t shake because it gives him that sliver of security he needs in the face of fragile mortal life.

The last of the embers in the fireplace are dying and Castiel can feel the weariness of the night drag on his mind, tempting him to fall into one of the empty beds, but he has a responsibility to his patient, and that has and always will come first.

(A memory comes, unbidden, of angry eyes and an angrier voice, yelling at him for the impertinence of daring to put his life on the line just to try and save another. The words still sting, even after years have grated out their meaning.)

A shadow creeps over Dean’s eye, at least Castiel thinks so, but maybe it’s just a trick of what little light is left, and he takes that as his cue to get up and relight his oil lamp. Dean slumps back on his bed, without a word, but Castiel can feel the heaviness of the silence that suddenly fills the room. It’s like there are a million voices in the air, whispering and murmuring, but he can’t understand a single one of them. There’s something he’s missing, but he can’t tell for the life of him what it is.

The lamp is empty, only a thin pool of oil left and Castiel starts on the arduous task to find the oil canister and refill the lamp in the dark. His eyes have grown used to the sparse light of the remaining embers, but it is no easy task to aim the beaked opening of the canister right and not spill any of the precious oil. He had to fight hard to even get the oil lamp, the Stadium Overseer insisted that he use tallow lamps, and only after a lot of insisting back (courtesy of Rachel) did he finally relent and allow Castiel this luxury. The light of the tallow lamps is too unsteady for his work, not to mention that all the soot in the air is of little help to his patients. It’s bad enough that the shaft above the fireplace regularly clogs up and the whole room fills with smoke.

He can feel Dean’s eye on him the whole time he fiddles with the lamp, and it makes him oddly self conscious, enough so that he almost spills the oil. This is new to him, the way Dean’s mere presence seems able to throw him off balance, how he’s spent more time pondering over Dean’s words than he has over his medical studies in a long time. Strangely though, he really doesn’t mind.

Dean allows him to check him over, an unreadable expression on his face as he watches Castiel’s every movement. He closes his eye when Castiel puts another damp cloth on his forehead, after coming to the decision that there are still traces of fever in him. And to be sure he makes Dean another cup of herbal tea, even though that means he has to rekindle the fire. The tea relaxes Dean into a sleepy state and his eyes fall shut shortly after he finishes it, as sleep claims him once more.

It’s then that he’s unsure what to do, for the first time since Dean was brought in. He could stay here and continue to watch over him, but that seems redundant now, and so he figures it is time to return to his own sleeping chamber and finally get some decent rest. He covers the fire and blows out the lamp, resting one last glance on Dean’s slumbering form.

“Don’t go.” The voice sounds sleepy, just as he is about to turn around and open the door. Dean is lying in the same position, eyes still closed, but he had unmistakably spoken. And Castiel knows he should ignore him, knows he should get some rest himself, but he has never been able to ignore the woes of his patients, has always found it hard to turn away from someone in need, no matter the cost to himself. And so he sits down in his chair again, resigning himself to spend the rest of the night in another uncomfortable position.

The faint smile that blossoms on Dean’s mouth is very much worth it.

And the question of _why_ doesn’t keep him up as long as he thought it would.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel spends most of his time either with Dean or thinking about Dean and he would be lying if he said it doesn’t affect his work. He’s distracted, thoughts constantly straying to the green eyed man in his treatment room. It’s a good thing that there currently are no games in the Stadium, as it is customary during the first two weeks of the Mesmeralias. At the end of the two eek period the culmination Games will be held, to celebrate the end of the summer glow and the beginning of the harvest season, and of course, the glory of the Master. There are no other wounded men in his care right now, other than Dean, and Castiel refuses to think about the fact that this limits Dean’s life to thirteen days, thirteen days before he’ll have to step out onto the white Marble and die.

It’s not the first time that Castiel thinks that part of his people’s culture is barbaric, it’s one of the reasons he has decided to become a doctor so many years ago. He had been so young and hopeful, full of visions and ideas, of saving people, bettering the world, but all that had died on the blood soaked battlefields of the Third Expansion War. Another one of those wars the Master had started to expanse his Empire, and it certainly won’t be the last. But at least for now they had peace.

Castiel was far from peace though. He was left with his shattered illusion and the fate of tending to men who are doomed to die anyway. He heals them, sees to their wounds, brings them from the brink of death only to send them out to die spill their blood on the white Marble, again and again, until their luck runs out. Castiel supposes that some might find that poetic.

He has done this for years now, reluctant at first, but resigned more and more with passing time and the inevitability of death. There is nothing he can do, but try to ease the sufferings of his charges, and for a long time, he has accepted that fate, it’s all he can ask for after his fall from grace. It’s a memory he doesn’t like, the scorn on his comrades faces, the pure unadulterated rage on Naomi’s as she expelled him from their ranks, but what hurts the most is and always be the absence of Balthazar’s.

The only thing that grants him peace of mind is when he visits the slums in his free time and helps the people there. On his own expenses, but looking into the faces of those he saved is all worth it.

(And then another plague sweeps through the slums, wiping out half of the population and Castiel again realizes that he lives a delusion, that this is punishment for his failure.)

But all that has changed now, just because one man was brought to him, one man who looks at him like no one else ever has, like he’s something wondrous and special, and for the first time in a long while, Castiel feels the urge to change something again. Not just to prolong the inevitable, but really save someone. Because of this one man he has found hope again.

The day passes, with Rachel covering most of his duties, not that he has much to do when there are no fights, but he’s still grateful for the relief. He finds himself drawn to the room he has come to think of as Dean’s room, even though technically it is supposed to hold more than one patient.

Dean has been sleeping most of the day, the fever flaring back up and draining his energy, but he’s awake now and his eye is fixed on Castiel, and oddly enough, his restlessness settles, just because Dean smiles at him.

“You going to stand there all day?” His voice sounds tired and there are dark shadows under his eyes, but still Castiel can feel a soft flutter in his chest, like his heart has grown wings and tries to fly away. He feels almost light when he closes the door behind him and walks in to sit in his chair at Dean’s bedside again.

“What? No poking today?” Dean lies on his side again, doubtlessly to get a better look at Castiel, and he has half a mind to chide him for putting strain on his cracked ribs, but the words get lost in the depth of Dean’s eye as they stare at each other. Castiel can’t find the will to look away, he has seen all of it already has spent hours (as his sore muscles can tell) watching his sleeping body, but he still can’t get enough. He could lose himself in Dean’s eyes, in the soft flutter of his lashes, in the gentle lines the fire casts on his face.

“I’m almost disappointed. Come on doc, won’t you stick something in me?” There’s an unfamiliar tone in Dean’s voice, a low drawl, weaving around his words, as if he’s suggesting something more than the words might hint at.

“Medical procedures rarely require things to be stuck in.” Castiel explains and wonders offhandedly where the idea came from in the first place. So far the only thing he has stuck into Dean was his needle to stitch up a few of his cuts, and Dean had been unconscious at the time. Maybe he is missing something again.

Dean looks at him for a moment, incredulity clearly written on his face, and Cas’ frown deepens as he bursts out into seemingly random laughter.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” He wipes a hand over his eyes, wincing slightly as he drags over the bruised skin, as if the laughter has brought him to tears, and Castiel tries a smile on his own, because it’s a good thing to see Dean this happy. It makes Castiel feel light and at ease. “Here I thought I couldn’t get any more obvious and you still don’t get it. I’m not sure if I should laugh or cry man.” There’s humor in his voice, but also something that reminds Castiel of… fondness?

“From what I observed, you already did both.”

Dean snorts and Castiel feels another smile tugging at his lips.

“You really are something else, Cas.” The nickname sounds strange, yet so familiar on Dean’s tongue, making itself instantly at home in Castiel’s head.

“I suppose that is a compliment.”

Dean laughs again, softer this time, but there is a wistful expression in his eye. “Oh Cas, the things you do to me.”

“I don’t understand. All I have done was treating your injuries.” Castiel tilts his head, but again, the changed angle does nothing to alleviate his confusion.

“Really?” Dean’s one open eye is hooded and Castiel can’t remember the movement that led him to be so close up in his space all of a sudden. “You really don’t understand? That’s a shame.” The last words are only whispered and Castiel can feel Dean’s breath tickle against his skin. “Maybe I should show you.”

And then there are lips on Castiel’s and a warm fluttering sensation settles in his stomach. His eyes are wide for a moment, but he closes them as it seems the right thing to do, and he’s rewarded when the feeling intensifies, when there’s nothing but the sensation of touch left to guide him. Their stubble catches against each other, a rough sensation that s strangely enticing. Castiel’s hands feel heavy on his thighs, but Dean isn’t touching him anywhere else, and he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to touch, and so he just sits there frozen, losing himself in the soft press of lips.

They sit like that for what seems to be an eternity, but it’s over far too soon. Dean pulls back and Castiel’s eyes blink open and for a moment they just stare at each other. Castiel licks his lips, chasing the taste that lingers there and he watches with slight wonder as Dean’s eye widens minutely. He doesn’t get the time to process this, before Dean pushes back in, and this time there are hands on him, holding on to his shoulders as Dean presses his lips to Castiel, as if it is the only thing that keeps him from drowning.

Dean has sat up on the edge of the bed, legs bracketing around Castiel’s and it is hard to focus on anything right now, because everything is Dean, sweet glorious Dean, and Castiel is sure that his heart will jump out of his chest any second now. There’s something soft underneath his hands and he realizes with light surprise that he’s moved his hands into Dean’s hair, pulling him in even closer, until there’s nothing in between them.

The kiss lasts longer this time, and Castiel is loath to let go when Dean pulls back, but he’s soothed by the close proximity that he maintains. “You have never done this before, haven’t you?” Dean’s voice sounds breathless, and his smile warms Castiel to the bones. For the first time since they met there is not a hint of pain in Dean’s eye, only a soft glimmer, a spark of something Castiel can’t name.

“I never had the occasion.” He’s sure he’s addicted to the sound of Dean’s laugh, every time he hears it his heart seems to swell with so much warmth like it’s trying to burst out of his chest. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, one he’s never had before, but Castiel already knows he‘ll never be able to live without it again.

“Damn it Cas. You really have no idea what you’re doing to me, have you?” Castiel isn’t any the wiser about what Dean means with it this time.

“What am I doing to you?”

Dean’s hand trails along Castiel’s arm, to where his hand still rests on the side of his neck and he weaves his fingers through Castiel’s. “Do you feel that?” He asks when he presses the palm of Castiel’s hand to his chest. Castiel frowns; there is nothing but the thick feeling of bandages under the shirt he lent to Dean. This can’t be what Dean wants him to feel?

Dean must have read his confusion, because he furrows his brows and then chuckles quietly. “Damn, I forgot about those.” His hand tightens around Castiel’s, before he gently moves it away. Castiel’s heart almost stops when Dean starts to pull off his shirt, and that really shouldn’t affect him like that. He has seen Dean’s chest already, but somehow it’s different now. He knows he should object when Dean carefully pushes his hand under the bandages around his chest, especially when he sees the wince of pain as he brushes over the cracked ribs. But he can’t bring himself to say anything; he’s entranced by the burning heat of Dean’s skin under his touch, a heat that, he’s sure, doesn’t come from the fever.

And there it is, the steady beat of a heart, pulsing through his fingertips, racing through his arm and into his own chest, until his whole body seems to be suffused by the feeling.

“See? That’s all you.” Castiel doesn’t exactly ‘see’ it, but he does accept the comment for what it is. A hint at something deeper, something that Castiel can’t quite parse yet.

“I feel the same.” Castiel quietly admits and Dean lets out a sharp breath of air. He’s not exactly sure, what it is that he feels, but he’s sure that he wants to find out, even if there is the chance that Dean might feel something similar. And even though he knows that they have no chance and no future, because Dean will die soon, he also knows he will forever regret it if he doesn’t reach out for it now. 

“Really now?” Dean’s voice is low and full of silent laughter and he doesn’t even wait for an answer before he places a soft kiss on Castiel’s cheek, their hands still trapped between them, over Dean’s unrelenting heartbeat. He trails kisses down to Castiel’s mouth, caught between laughter and wonder as he maps out every inch he can reach. “You’re lucky that I’m down for the count, or else I would make your pretty little mouth sing like a bird for me.”

“I’m not quite sure what you’re trying to insinuate, but I gather it is supposed to please me?”

“Oh come on, I tried to be poetic here, can’t you give me some credit?”

“I still don’t understand what you were referring to.”

Dean laughs and shakes his head. “You really are this innocent, aren’t you? And here I am, thinking about all the nasty things I want to do to you, and you have no idea. Look at me, corrupting the angel. I really must be a fiend.”

“Dean, you’re not a fiend.” Castiel says with determination, but there is already a shadow pulling over Dean’s features. Like his words have conjured something he had tried to ignore until now.

“You don’t know that. You don’t even know what I did to end up here.” Dean grimaces and pulls back, leaving spots of cold and empty skin on Castiel’s body, where his touch lingered only moments before. “You really shouldn’t trust people this easily. Things like that can get you killed.” There’s a hard edge in his voice and he won’t meet Castiel’s eyes.

“Dean, what is wrong?”

“Nothing Cas. I’m tired, I need rest.” The words sting, even more so when Dean turns his back to him, lying on his side to face the wall.

“Please, let me at least check on your bandage.” Dean’s shoulders tense, and Castiel is not sure if it’s because he slipped back into his doctor’s voice or if there’s something else. But he stays silent and Castiel can do nothing but watch his back.

“Are you going to stand there forever? Really man, watching a guy sleep is fucking creepy.” Castiel sighs. He can’t say what had changed, but whatever it was; it has Dean no longer wanting his company. Maybe he misinterpreted something, maybe he just imagined it.

The closing of the door seems almost final, as he pulls it shut, and only then does it occur to him, that despite everything he said, Castiel never once thought it necessary to chain up Dean again. He still can’t believe he’s a bad man after all, and that makes Dean’s rejection even worse. He doesn’t know how long he stands there, fingers pressed against his lips, lost in the memory of Dean kissing him, but when he finally moves away, it is with a heavy heart and a sense of loss he can’t explain.


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel doesn’t sleep well that night; he’s haunted by dreams of the past, nightmares filled with screams and blood, and the stench of death all around, a shock of red hair, trampled into the dirt and the overwhelming panic permeating the air. It has been years since the last time he had that dream, and just like then he wakes up soaked in sweat and with the lingering sense of dread in his system. He doesn’t know what triggered it, but he very well now that it’s a bad sign.

He has neglected his medical duties. He has allowed Dean to distract him, has allowed that Dean tempers with his applied treatment, and worst, he has let Dean get into his head. He’s a doctor, pledged to help those who can’t help themselves, and even though he has been expelled from the guild, he has sworn to uphold at least that oath, if nothing else. And he has accepted his punishment, to look after those he can’t save, ease their sufferings, and he will do that until the guild will accept him back, or until he dies. It’s what he deserves after all, he brought disgrace to his guild, he disobeyed Naomi’s orders and he endangered the lives of his comrades.

The memory is still fresh, the details barely diminished over time. The stench of death around him overruled by the sharp tang of the blood on his hands. The woman under his hands breathing shallower with every passing second. The shouts of his comrades around him, Naomi’s voice barking orders at him, but he can’t go, not now, when there’s still hope, when he can still save her. And then everything vanishes in a flash of white and when his sight clears again, half of the scenery is gone and the street swims in blood. But the thing that has itself irrevocably embedded in his mind is the memory of the heavy weight on top of his body, something warm dribbling on his neck and the slowly building dread as the realization dawns on him.

That day his best friend died, because Castiel refused to leave a stranger to die, because he ignored Naomi’s orders to retreat, putting his whole team at risk. Because he valued the life of a stranger over his own. And now, so many years later he still holds on to that, because despite of how often he mocked him, Balthazar was still willing to throw his life away to save Castiel’s. And because deep down Castiel knows that Balthazar was proud of him, and it wouldn’t do his sacrifice justice if Castiel changed that intrinsic part of himself.

Naomi will never take him back, he knows that. In her eyes he hasn’t just caused the death of his comrades, he has also shamed the name of the guild, tainted their reputation, and maybe she’s even right with that- Castiel doesn’t know. He has long since come to the conclusion that, albeit effective, the military organization of the guild was rather oppressing. Healers needed to have a heart, that’s what Balthazar used to say, a heart and common sense (which Castiel apparently lacked), and a bit of intuition. Samandiriel used to say that Castiel had too much heart, to which Balthazar always would reply, that it was what made him what he was, and then they always would share a drink and a laugh at some joke that was beyond Castiel’s comprehension.

It had taken him a long time to accept his fate, the deaths weighing down on his shoulders and he has come to peace with what he chose to be his punishment. But Dean made him forget all that, Dean gave him hope for something better, for something he doesn’t deserve. And for a short time, Castiel was reminded of how it feels to live for his own sake, not just for the sake of others, for more than just repentance.

But he can’t allow that, he doesn’t deserve happiness, he’s supposed to repent for the lives he’s taken, for the harm he’s caused, and Dean is just like any other patients, destined to lose his life, just like all the other Fighters he patched up.

Dean is awake when Castiel finally goes to check on him, after he’s done some well needed grooming and shaving, but his back is turned to him and he refuses to acknowledge Castiel with anything more than a twitch of shoulders. That could have been accidentally though. But that suits Castiel just fine, it’s easier to resist the temptation like this and he hates to admit that, but the sight of Dean alone, even though it was only his back, was almost enough to make his conviction waver.

“Dean, I have to check on your injuries.” This is at least something he’s used to, something he can handle; difficult patients that refuse to heed his words. “Allow me to check on you or I’ll be forced to call the guards.” It’s a threat he’s used so many times before that it feels dull on his tongue. Most of his patients are grateful for his help, but there are always those who fight him, who refuse to cooperate, simply out of fear or stubbornness and Castiel can’t tell how often he thought how ironic it is to force treatment on men who’ll die anyway.

Dean growls lowly but turns around anyway, stubbornly looking anywhere but at Castiel. His eye is still swollen but there is a tiny line of green visible between his lids. The skin is still purplish-blue, but there are yellow spots already, a clear sign that the bruises are healing. His face is covered in stubble and Castiel thinks he might need a shave soon too.

“I knew you where to good to be true.” Dean says and Castiel stills his hands in the middle of un-wrapping the bandage around Dean’s chest. But Dean doesn’t say anything more and Castiel doesn’t know what there is to reply. He wants to say something, he wants to smooth out the hard lines of Dean’s tensed up shoulders, he wants to repeat their kisses from yesterday, he wants to forget his duty and indulge himself, forget that there is a tomorrow, forget that their lives are incompatible. He wants to taste every little part of this man, he wants to lose himself in those green eyes and forget the world around him. Castiel just wants so much at once, that his hand is frozen in midair on its way to - Castiel doesn’t even know where it was supposed to go.    

Dean looks at him, a frown on his face and his tone is almost mocking when he finally speaks again. “What? Don’t know what to say? I kind of have that effect.” There’s a bitter tinge to his voice, as if he had expected something from Castiel that he failed to deliver. Castiel drops his hand, the want is still burning under his skin but it feels disconnected, like he’s sharing the feelings of someone else. There’s something he’s missing again, something in the way Dean’s shoulders are hunched, as if he expects a blow that’ll never come.

“Let me finish treating your wounds.” Castiel finally says and his voice sounds softer than intended. Dean looks surprised for a moment, but then he pulls his mask back on almost instantly afterwards.

“Sure.” His voice sounds easy, almost flippant, but his body speaks an entire different language. He lies down again, hands braced on his side, vulnerable and open, but at the same time it is obviously clear how uncomfortable the position makes him. It is yet another side of Dean, another facet, and Castiel is yet again unsure of how to react to that. An effect Dean seems to have quite often on him. There’s a faint ache in his heart, a constant pulsing want to reach out and touch Dean, to pull the sadness from his eyes, to make it all better.

And somehow that feeling travels to his tongue and he speaks before he can even think about it. “Dean, what happened?” There are so many questions forced into this one. _What happened to you that you ended up here? What happened to you that made you so afraid of intimacy? What happened between us?_ And even: _What happened to you doing things to me?_

He shouldn’t be doing this, getting close to Dean, assuming that it’s still possible, will distract him even further from his work, and he’s not supposed to allow himself any indulgences. But Castiel has spent so many years with penance, with denying himself, with watching the inevitable circle of death on the Marble floor and he just can’t find the will to withstand anymore. He wants this, and even though it will hurt, even though Dean’s time is limited, he’s not going to let this chance slip without a fight. And maybe that makes him weak, then so be it.

Dean looks at him, just looks at him and for a moment Castiel is sure that he will tell him off, push him away and hide behind his mask again, but then something seems to slip and his face softens. And then Dean’s stare intensifies, it’s like he’s searching for something in Castiel’s face and he’s not sure if he finds it but then something changes in Dean’s mimic again and he smiles, ever so slightly.

“I should have known I can’t get you off my back.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Are you sure you want to go there?” He doesn’t need to elaborate for Castiel to understand the implications. Dean is aware of his death sentence, is as much aware of it as Castiel is, and he also knows what that means for them. But Castiel has already made that decision.

“Yes, I am sure.”

Dean smiles and it manages to both make Castiel’s stomach flutter and wrench his heart. It’s sad and hopeful at the same time, and Dean looks up at him like he’s the most precious thing in the world. “I really should apologize then, shouldn’t I?”

Castiel just nods, at a loss of words, but for the time being it’s enough for him to just watch Dean.

“I need you to realize that this won’t have a happy end.” Dean’s voice is serious, and Castiel sits down in his chair, because he gets a feeling he doesn’t want to be standing for this.

“I know that Dean.” He says, after it becomes clear that Dean won’t continue without some form of reply. Castiel’s voice sounds gravellier than expected and he has to clear his throat a few times before he gets rid of the dry feeling that has settled there. “But I’m willing to try anyway.” He adds after a short moment of hesitation, it seems to have been the right thing, because something settles on Dean’s face and he suddenly seems very sure of himself.

“I knew you were special.” There’s an odd sense of pride in Dean’s words, along with an equally odd sense of self-satisfaction. “You literally have no sense of self-preservation, have you?”

For a moment Castiel remembers a very similar scene, someone else telling him how little he does to preserve himself, with an equally fond smile, as though that is some kind of achievement.

“I don’t think so.” Castiel says, and there’s something in Dean’s eye, a twinkle of sorts that ignites a warm flame in Castiel’s belly, lightening him up completely from the inside.

“I was so dumb.” Dean reaches out a hand, resting it gently on Castiel’s cheek and there are so many emotions written on his face, at once, it’s like a dam has broken and Dean is finally letting everything through. “Listen Cas, I’m not good at this, emotions and crap, and I’m pretty much a dick most of the time, but I really want this to work. I know it’s selfish to ask this of you, and I tried to stay away, but I just don’t want to spend my last days regretting that I let this chance slip.”

Castiel can feel the slight tremble in Dean’s hand and he settles his own hand on top of it, rubbing his thumb softly over Dean’s knuckles.

“And I know you said you want this, but you don’t even know me or what I did, but I can’t just let you go.” There’s pain there, a deep hurt that reaches deeper than anything else, and it breaks Castiel’s heart just to look at him. And under that is something else, a hint of doubt in Dean’s eye, a lingering question as if he can’t believe that this moment is true.

“It doesn’t matter to me what you did.” Castiel says, and he means it. “I don’t care about your past, Dean. All I care about is you.” And there is so much more he wants to say, but he’s unable to frame it into words. He has never been good with words, so he does the only thing he can think of that might convince Dean.

It’s a rush, and it’s glorious, and it’s everything Castiel could ever wish for. Dean tastes just like he remembers him, salt with a hint of leather underneath and something else that Castiel can’t place. His fingers card through Dean’s hair, pulling him in, until there is no breathing space between them, and he pours all his emotions, all the feelings, all the confusion and hopes he feels into the kiss.

Dean groans, his hands winding around Castiel’s hips and he lifts him up and onto his lap as if he weighs nothing. Castiel should be wary of Dean’s injuries, but it’s so hard to concentrate right now, with Dean’s tongue pushing in between the seam of his lips, and then Castiel loses that train of thoughts too, and everything that matters is Dean and only Dean.

Castiel drags his hands through Dean’s hair, it’s wiry and clearly in need of washing, but to Castiel it feels softer than any fur he’s ever touched and all he can do is hold on to it while Dean twirls his tongue around his’. Dean’s hands wander over his body, hot, even through the fabric of his clothing and Castiel feels like he’s drowning and floating at the same time.

“I want you Cas, I want you so badly, you have no idea.” Dean’s breath is unbelievably hot against Castiel’s skin, sending shivers down his entire body, awakening a deep flame inside of him, a desire for something more carnal, something he never even thought of wanting. “If It’s the last thing I do, I want you Cas, every little part of you, until you’ll never be able to forget me.” It’s a desperate plea, a prayer almost, and a promise all the same. The wish of a dying man, and Castiel can’t even think of refusing him.

He has never done this before, it feels so strange, yet he instinctively seems to know what to do. His hands have a will of their own as they track a way down Dean’s body, exploring every little bit. Dean is hot under his touch, but there are too many areas that are covered in bandages, or oily with the remnants of the liniment, and with every new reminder of injury Castiel’s hands grow more hesitant. It goes against his medical isntinct to risk Dean’s well-being, no matter how much he wants this. And it doesn’t help that every time he drags his hands over Dean’s back, his fingers catch on thick scar tissue, the skin thrown up into small hills and ridges, a whole mountain of pain, etched into Dean’s back.

“Don’t hold back Cas.” Dean growls in his ear, and it becomes increasingly harder not to just yank Dean’s clothes off and do whatever it is that his body demands. “Cas, please.”

“Dean, you’re injured.”

“I don’t care.” Dean’s hands dig into Cas’ hips, pulling him on top of him, rolling them until Dean lies spread under Castiel, supporting almost his entire weight. “Just show me that you’re real.” His movements are almost frantic as he tries to divest Castiel of his clothes without breaking contact. And it sets of all kinds of alarms in Castiel’s head.

And then it hits him, the fleeting moment of doubt in Dean’s eyes, the way he had begged him, it all fits. Dean doesn’t believe him, he doesn’t believe for a second that Castiel will stay, that this will be his only chance. It is indeed, the last desperate wish of a dying man.

“Dean.” But he isn’t listening, he’s too busy with kissing every inch of Castiel’s skin he can reach, fingers digging almost painfully into Castiel’s hips. “Dean.” Castiel manages to get his arms in between them, grabbing on to Dean’s wrists and push them down. He tries to be as gentle as possible, mindful of Dean’s injured state, and Dean finally allows him to settle them down. He’s pliant all of a sudden, as if all the fight has been drained out of him and he stares at the wall with a defeated expression.

“Dean, this is not what I want.” Castiel says carefully, watching as Dean tenses slightly only to relax immediately. But it’s not a comfortable position, no, Dean looks like he’s given up, like he has accepted whatever fate he thinks has been forced on him. “I don’t want you like this. I want everything of you. I don’t care if it’ll hurt me, I don’t care if our time is limited, I want to give you everything I have Dean. I’m yours.”

It’s like he has broken through whatever wall Dean had built around himself, there’s another change in Dean’s expression, another layer peeled away, and now he can finally see Dean, the real Dean, looking up at him, open and vulnerable, with a hopeful trust in his eye.

“I want you.” He mirrors Dean’s words back at him, and it sets something loose, a predatory gleam in Dean’s eyes and then he’s suddenly pressed down into the bed, Dean looming over him and there is a promise in the lines of Dean’s smiling mouth. The kiss is like the crashing of waves, wild and unrestrained, a fight and a dance in equal measures and this time Castiel doesn’t have any inhibitions when it comes to touching.

He shoves his hands under Dean’s shirt, dragging his hands over skin and bandages, again driven by this wild instinct deep inside of him. Dean makes short work of Castiel’s own shirt, pulling it off and taking a moment to look down at him, eyes shining with a hungry gaze, and then he dives down, and Castiel is startled by the first moan that escapes him when Dean licks over his nipples. The sensation is new and mind blowing, his hands temporarily forgotten where they still cling to Dean’s body, as he is lost in Dean’s merciless assault. He bites, he kisses and he licks and soon Castiel can’t distinguish what exactly he’s doing, it’s too much and all the sensation centers between his legs, a pulsing heat where his erection builds up, hungry and impatient.

“Dean.” He groans, and then there is a hand on him, rubbing at him through the fabric of his pants, but it’s not enough and it’s too much at the same time and Castiel has to bite back another moan that would have come out closer to a scream.

“I got you.” Dean whispers, hot breath skidding over Castiel’s ear where Dean has temporarily relocated, and Castiel isn’t sure if he can keep his mind together any longer. Dean tugs on his pants, and then he finally slides them free and down his legs and Castiel is writhing on the bed, desperate for any sort of friction. When Dean’s hand closes around his cock it’s like he’s been hit by lightning, his back arches of the bed and his hands scramble to find something to hold on to, anything, until he dugs them into the folds of Dean’s shirt.

Dean’s mouth is on his, but he’s too lost in the sensation to kiss back properly. Dean growls something, a word, or maybe it’s Castiel’s name, and then he is swept away by a wave of white and bliss, a buzz in his mind and sparks of electrical fire through his veins. He’s vaguely aware of sounds, a deep rough voice that he recognizes as his own, as he pants through his very first orgasm, outside of wet teenage dreams.

When Castiel finally comes down from his high, Dean is lying next to him, trailing gentle kisses down his neck, warm hand resting on his stomach, but all he can really focus on is the brilliant green of Dean’s one open eye. He’s beautiful, despite the bruises, despite all the hard lines carved into Dean’s face, despite the pain that never quite leaves Dean’s eyes, he’s beautiful – and everything Castiel ever wanted.

“Cas, you are gorgeous.” Dean whispers and there is a smile on his lips, lighting up his entire face, erasing all the worry lines at once. Castiel realizes with a startling clarity that this is love. It has been only a day, but he is already in love with Dean.

He reaches out to touch Dean, as he has touched him, but he’s stopped by Dean’s gentle hand. “No, I just want to lie with you for a bit.” There is a warm look in Dean’s eyes, not a smile, but something equally as happy. “There’s time for that later.” It’s a promise, but it’s more than that. It’s Dean’s acceptance of Castiel’s feelings, of both their wishes to stay together, to give it their all.

And for a while Castiel allows himself to forget the dark future that hangs above their heads.

* * *

 

“I killed someone.”

Dean’s voice is solemn, almost too loud in the darkness of the room. The fire had burned down again, the oil lamp standing forgotten on the table. Castiel had tried to get up at one point, but Dean had refused to let him go, and it was hard to argue when there was a mouth latched to his collar bone, sucking and nipping and totally against the idea of moving any time soon. So he had stayed, wrapped in Dean’s arms, legs in a tangle and content to an amount that can only be described as faulty.

Castiel had dozed off at some point, but he is pulled back into wakefulness by Dean’s sudden confession. He can’t say how much time has passed, but he can tell with almost crisp clarity that Dean has spent all of it building up to this moment.

He’s wide awake now, trying to make out Dean’s features in the dark, but all he can see are shadows and the sharp lines of Dean’s jaw. Castiel doesn’t say anything, just waits for Dean to break the silence on his own. It’s a fragile moment, he can feel it, like one of those filigree glassworks he sometimes sees on the market, when one of the merchants out of the Far East visits their city, one wrong word and it will shatter.

“Well it shouldn’t be surprising that you’re not surprised.” Dean’s frown is pretty much audible, even though Castiel imagines seeing some lines on Dean’s forehead, but that could have been just a play of shadows. “Okay, never mind. That sounded pretty dumb, even to my ears.” He sighs, it’s a heavy sound, burdened with a lot of history and Castiel fears for a moment that the moment is gone and Dean won’t say what’s on his mind.

“Look, this isn’t easy for me, but I feel like I need to tell you. Honesty and all that shit, but that’s more Sam’s deal, and I’m doing a pretty awful job right now, aren’t I?” Dean groans and runs a hand through his hair, turning to lie on his back and Castiel just follows the movement until he rests his head on Dean’ shoulder, mindful to not put any pressure on the injured ribs.

“It’s alright Dean, I’m not going anywhere.” Castiel speaks against the curve of Dean’s neck; he’s close enough to see the slight movement of muscles underneath the skin, or maybe that is yet another play of shadows. Dean swallows, and this time Castiel is sure he hasn’t just imagined it, but it seemed to have been the right thing to say, because Dean’s hand comes to rest on the small of Castiel’s back and he relaxes into his arms.

“Okay, right.” Dean’s fingers draw idle patterns on the bare of Castiel’s back, trailing a line of goose bumps behind, but Castiel ignores the warmth that flushes his skin in favor of focusing on Dean. He puts one hand on the flat expanse of Dean’ stomach, feeling the strength underneath, and reminds Dean of his steady presence.

“I grew up in a small town close to the Western border. My mother died when we were very young, Sam, my brother, had barely been born and my father didn’t really take that well. We had a small family business, carpentry - small but pretty successful. I had to take care of Sammy while Dad was at work. He wasn’t really himself ever since Mom died, and he kept drinking a lot and he screwed up a lot of business. I helped as much as I could, but I was just a kid and people wouldn’t take me seriously, and there wasn’t much I could do.

“I took over as soon as I was old enough, but Dad had already piled up too much shit and business barely ever picked up again. I wasn’t aware that he was in debt until a few days after his death, when two men suddenly appeared on our doorstep and demanded repayment.

Turned out he loaned a lot of money just to keep his booze flowing, while his business went down the drain.” There’s a deep bitterness in Dean’s voice, something born from more than just a slight, something nourished over years, a deep resentment, that makes him sound almost caustic.

“But there was no money, Dad had wasted everything on cheap booze and god knows what else. I tried to negotiate with them, asking for more time, but they weren’t interested in anything I had to offer.” Dean’s fingers still on Castiel’s back, and he can feel the tension that builds up in Dean’s body. Castiel doesn’t have to take an educated guess as to why; being unable to repay one’s debts is a crime, and ends with serfdom most of the time. That or people choose to sell themselves to the Stadium as fighters. But there is something more to it, because the serfdom is supposed to be temporary, work in factories or private households, not a sure death sentence like the mines.

“Except for one thing.” He scoffs, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “As his sons it would fall to both Sam and me to repay Dad’s debts, but there was no way I was going to let that happen, so one of them, Alastair, offered me a deal. He would take me as a slave, for life, and spare Sam in return.” His hand stills momentarily before he pinches the bridge of his nose.  “How could I resist that? I would have done anything for Sammy, still would. Needless to say I said yes.”

Dean’s hand falls down again, resting only a hair’s width away from Cas’ hand on his stomach, but they don’t touch, not yet at least. “Sam was furious, but there was nothing he could do. I made my decision and Alastair was an influential man, his word was law. I thought it couldn’t be so bad, I was used to manual labor and physical violence, as fucked up as that sounds. Turned out I was wrong.”

Castiel only hesitates for a second before he puts his hand on Dean’s, softly squeezing to show his support. He would have to lie to say he had any idea how to handle this situation. He has never been good with emotions; somehow he either misreads them or simply doesn’t notice them, but it’s different with Dean. It’s like he’s tuned in to him, sensitive to every little change in his mood and somehow he always seems to know what to do. He doesn’t even have to think about it, it just comes to him naturally and is driven by the ultimate and unquestioned need to support Dean.

It’s a stunning revelation, but also one that stays unmentioned in the dark between them. This is Dean’s moment and so Castiel refocuses his attention on him.

“Turned out Alastair wasn’t interested in my work capabilities, well at least not for that kind of work. He made me do… _things_ , forced me to please him, used me in every possible way. He was a sick bastard with a penchant for torture.  Got my scars from him, well most of them anyways. Told me I was special, that no one deserved his marks more than I did.”

Castiel’s hand twitches, a subconscious attempt to reach out and touch the thin white lines on the small of Dean’s back, and Dean must notice, but he doesn’t give any indication of it. There’s a sick feeling welling in Castiel’s gut, he wants to rip something apart, preferably that Alastair person, wants to rain heavenly vengeance on him for daring to lay a hand on Dean. Rage like this is unfamiliar, he can’t remember ever feeling this intensely before and it would frighten him, but at the same time he knows it’s right, because _Dean is his_.

“I kept resisting him, purely out of spite, and I knew that spurred him on only more, but I couldn’t _not_ do it, I couldn’t give in to that bastard, I just couldn’t. I could barely hold on to myself as it was, if I’d ever given that bastard the satisfaction of giving in, I would have been broken in no time.” The anger and bitterness is gone from his voice now, and the emotion it’s replaced with, knocks all the rage right out of Castiel. His voice is breaking, and Castiel can feel moisture dripping down from Dean’s cheek, but he keeps going, speaks through the tears and it’s all Castiel can do to keep his own back.

“I kept thinking of Sammy and how I was doing this all for him, it kept me going but there were days when I just wanted it all to end. And Alastair kept playing these sick mind games, dragging in other slaves, or sometimes local girls, mostly daughters of whores, because no one would miss them. He said if I could impress him he would let me go. I refused at first, I wouldn’t torture someone else just to save my own skin, I tried so hard to resist him, but he always thought of something special afterwards, to punish me.”

Dean chokes on a sob and Castiel instinctively tightens his grip on Dean’s hand, pressing his body even closer, just to give as much comfort as possible. “The day I first picked up the knife he was so proud, kept saying I was a natural, I would come far, but he wasn’t impressed. Next time I tried even harder, but no matter what I did, he would always say he wasn’t impressed. And then I realized that I was all just a game, he had no intention of ever letting me go, not when he could enjoy watching me turn into a monster.”

He almost spits out the last words, tears still streaming, but his voice is no overcome with self-loathing, and Castiel finds himself in awe at the insane amount of raw emotion that Dean can display in such a short amount of time. He’s unrefined, like a raw diamond, all rough edges and hidden beauty. It makes Castiel’s heart fill with emotion, with longing and an endless pool of warmth and he just wants to embrace Dean, take him into his arms and just cancel out the harsh world around them.

“I was so close to giving up and just end everything, I didn’t want to kill myself, but I wanted it to end so badly, that I was actually considering it. I refused to participate in his games; he could torture me as much as he wanted, as long as I didn’t have to rip into another one. But then he brought in Sam, claiming I hadn’t been satisfactory, and that Sam needed to do his part of the compensation, and that he would clear both our debts if I tortured him in all the ways he taught me.

“It’s ridiculous really, it was so clear all of a sudden. I couldn’t lay a hand on Sammy, but I had a knife in my hand, so I stuck it in the only reasonable place. Alastair’s throat. ‘Course we kind of had a problem after that, he had a lot of guards and influence and such. There was no way we would both get out alive, but so far his guards didn’t even know Sam was there. Alastair liked to keep his little side entertainment a secret, it would ruin his reputation, so I played a little decoy while Sam got away, let them catch me red handed, so they wouldn’t waste time on searching for the culprit and stumbled over Sam in the end.

“I thought they would execute me on the spot, but then they discovered Alastair’s little playground, and came to the conclusion I’ve done the city a favor, but I was a slave and killing your master is a no go so they sent me to the mines, as good of a death sentence as any. Gave me a good lashing before that though. But I had no intention of staying, so I broke out at the first chance, turned out they weren’t really prepared for someone in good physical shape, but they caught me anyway and yeah, you know the rest of the story.”

Dean sounds tired now, more than anything else, and even though they haven’t done anything more exerting than lying around, Castiel can feel a bone-deep exhaustion, like he’s been up for days without a minute of rest. But it’s nothing, nothing compared to the slack he can feel in Dean’s body, like he’s just lost all of his strength to the telling of one little tale. One little tale that changed not only Dean’s life but also Castiel’s.

He’s sure of it now, more than ever. Dean is everything he wants, everything he needs and he’d rather spend what little time they have together, even though it will inevitably break his heart, than doing nothing and regret it for the rest of his live. And he wants to give it his everything, he wants to give Dean his soul, his heart, even if he gets nothing in returns, it will be enough. 

It has to be enough, Dean has lost enough already, Castiel won’t take anything else from him.

“Please Cas, just say something. Your silence isn’t really reassuring, you know?” There’s an almost playful tone to his voice, but it sounds forced, fickle to Castiel’s ears, like he’s holding up a pretense, and the way his voice trembles, just slightly around the edges, tells him more than anything how close Dean is to break apart.

Castiel is terrible with expressing himself, has always been; used to be the center of many jokes from his comrades (most of said jokes he failed to understand); the most basic  forms of human interactions often fail him, but with Dean it seems so easy sometimes. Because with Dean it’s enough to say his name, put every little thing he feels into that one word, and somehow Dean always seems to understand exactly what he’s saying.  

Dean relaxes minutely under his hands, letting go of part of the tension that had built up during the story, and Castiel can almost feel the pressure ease out of the room. “Now you know why you shouldn’t trust me, I killed a man in cold blood.” But there’s no force behind his words, like he doesn’t really believe it himself anymore, that there could be even a hint of a chance that Castiel hasn’t fallen for him completely.

“You killed to protect your brother.” Castiel says, not waiting for Dean to get anything in, before he continues, “I have been to war Dean. I know a lot about taking lives.” And losing lives. “Sometimes circumstances don’t leave you a choice, and you did the right thing. Family is important.” And no one should know that better than Castiel, who hasn’t talked to his family in years, whose family has kicked him out after his disgrace, whose family wants nothing more to do with him, whose own brother has told him, right into his face, that he was ashamed of being related to him.

It had taken Castiel losing his family to finally understand how very important they were to him.

But at least Dean hadn’t made that mistake.

“It really is that easy, isn’t it? I mean, I knew I had no other choice, and Alastair was an asshole, but that doesn’t change that I’m a killer. I didn’t even hesitate, I just stabbed him. And it was so fucking easy, killing someone doesn’t have the right to feel easy. And all I could think of was that now I would never have to torture someone again, I didn’t even think of Sammy, I was just so relieved that it was over.”

“As you had every right to be.”

Dean isn’t crying anymore, hadn’t been for a while, but only now Castiel finds the courage to lift his hand and wipe away the tears. “I’ve been in a war.” He repeats, not so sure himself where he’s going with it. “There is no black and white in war, as much as people want to make you believe there is. I got into trouble more than once because I treated enemy soldiers. And that in itself already tells you a lot.

“I was a member of the guild of healers, sworn to neutrality amidst all conflict.” Even now, after all these years,  the words still sound as mocking on his ears as they did back then, when he threw them back at Naomi, when they were all he had between himself and the deep gaping hole that threatened to swallow him. But no matter how corrupt the guild was, no matter how questionable their intents, it had been his home for half of his life, and parting had been painful, and no words, no truth had changed that.

“I believed in that. I became a healer because I wanted to help people and their affiliations didn’t matter to me. But our leaders were corrupt, had been for a long time, so when the war came they allied with the Master, denying their support to the other side, on the ground of some century old law that holds no more meaning.”

It is an old story really. Not the first war the Master has fought and certainly not the last. There is not a single generation among their people that hasn’t lived through a war, either to conquer new lands, or defend the land the Master has claimed, it’s an endless vicious cycle, and as much as he wished he could, there had been nothing a single human being could have changed.

“I disagreed and I tried to help as many people as possible, regardless of the ‘side’ they were on. It was the right thing to do, I knew it, but my superiors thought otherwise. I was punished for disobedience more than once, and Naomi, the guild leader, threatened to expel me from the guild, but I couldn’t stop, not when I knew that I was doing the right thing.

“Still, I would have been kicked out, hadn’t it been for Balthazar. He convinced Naomi to let mecontinue what I was doing, arguing that I was one of the best among them, and that I saved as many of our people as I did theirs.” Castiel pauses, thinking back on that moment, when Naomi had resentfully agreed to it, and the contemptuous looks he gathered from many of his colleagues after that day. The gratefulness he had felt for Balthazar, while at the same time there had been an underlying seething anger, anger about the guild members that considered him in the wrong for doing the right thing, anger at the Master and his pointless war, anger even at Balthazar who had conformed so neatly to the situation, deviating only for his sake.

And then he had gotten his best friend killed, because he had wanted to save a girl whom he didn’t know, a girl who wore no colors, just a stranger who had gotten herself between two armies. “I didn’t think what I did was wrong, I still don’t think so, even though it got my best friend killed. And that’s just it, it’s easy to believe that right or wrong doesn’t matter, because in the end we’re just doomed anyway, but I for one don’t believe that. I believe that there is a right and a wrong as opposed to black and white in this world, and there is not a single doubt in my mind that you did the right thing.”

Dean doesn’t say anything for a long while, and Castiel kind of understands what Dean must have felt at his own silence earlier, but he doesn’t press him, because this wasn’t supposed to be confession time for Castiel and Dean has much to think about.

And when he finally speaks, Castiel can hear the warmth and gratitude, knowing with undeniable certainty that Dean understands. “Thank you.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick heads up that there won't be an update next week, because of Christmas. But the week after that everything will be back to normal. Happy holidays ;)

No matter how often he looks at Dean’s bruises, Castiel can’t shake the dark feeling that builds up in his gut. It’s bitterness and regret mixed with anger and frustration, because he wasn’t there to protect Dean and because he can’t lie a hand on the men who did this. Castiel doesn’t even understand why he’s feeling like this. There’s nothing he can do to change that Dean is marked. He can’t undo the past, Alastair is dead and considering that Dean will be dead too soon, revenge is ultimately inconsequently.

So Castiel focuses on the good things, every little change of color in Dean’s bruises that signals another step of healing, the way his ribs seem to heal abnormally fast and how he can move much easier already. He focuses on Dean’s smile, the smooth skin of his face after Castiel brought him his shaving kit, the way his other eye peeks from under the still swollen lid, still bruised but with the same entrancing green.

They’re lying in bed again, Dean has his arms wrapped around Castiel, hands splayed on his stomach, nose buried in the hairs on the back of his neck. Castiel has been reading to him, out of one of the few books he calls his own. The written word is a luxury and Dean had been quite impressed when he learned that Castiel could read. Most of his books are about medicine, but he has a few that are simply for entertainment. His favorite novels, old and worn but handled with care.

Castiel has tried to get up a few times to check on Rachel, see if he can help with anything, feeling the need to be at least temporarily present, but Dean has thwarted all of his attempts with increasingly unfair tactics. The attendees have left to celebrate, Castiel doesn’t need their help and they deserve a bit of free time.

“She doesn’t need you to babysit her.” Dean says, nuzzling his nose behind Castiel’s ear, nipping at the skin until he gives in, for the fourth time since they have lain down. It’s late afternoon, Castiel has spent almost the whole day with Dean, neglecting what little duties he has during the Mesmeralias. He could have gone out watching the parades, the flower strewn streets, the costumes, the masks, the celebrations; there is much to see. Castiel wishes he could show all those things to Dean. But he can’t, and he has no will to see the festivities on his own. It gets old after too many years of pretended frivolity, he can’t forget that as much as the Mesmeralias celebrate life, at the end of it is always death. 

It leaves a bitter taste on his tongue, so he stays holed in with Dean, reading until his voice gets hoarse and Dean decides that ‘he sounds far too sexy for his own good’ and pulls the book out of his hands.

“I will have to leave eventually.” Castiel says quietly after a moment of silence, only interrupted by Dean’s occasional hum when he discovers another spot on Castiel’s skin he likes. Dean tenses, almost imperceptibly, but the tickle of breath on Castiel’s neck stops for a moment, before he exhales again, slowly.

“I know. I know you’ll come back, but…” He doesn’t finish, but Castiel doesn’t need him to. He wants to spend as much time as possible with Castiel, because they’re on a deadline, and every minute spent apart is wasted. Castiel relaxes back into Dean’s embrace, now that he’s thought of it; he can’t even find the will to leave anymore. He wants to wrap himself around Dean, hold him as tight as possible and never let go again. He wants to breathe him in, inhale him until he can carry him wrapped around his heart, pulsing under his skin, never to be separated again.

Dean hasn’t done more than touching him superficially for a while. He’s not showing it, but his bruised rib must still bother him. Castiel wouldn’t want him to agitate his injuries more than necessary anyway.  

But he can feel it, there’s a constant tingle underneath his skin, the urge to touch, to consume, but he ignores it for now, in favor of just soaking up this moment.

“Maybe, I’ll just stay here for a while longer then.” Castiel murmurs into the lazy darkness of the room. Somehow it’s always dark when they’re like this, only embers casting glow-y shadows on the wall, covering everything with the safety of dreams, like if they could just stay like this forever, everything will be fine.

“Good plan.” Dean’s voice is a soft tremble of sound against his neck, and Castiel can feel the curve of his lips against his skin as he smiles. He pulls Castiel closer against his chest. “I think I’ll have to chain you, if you suggest leaving one more time.”

Castiel chuckles quietly, lacing his fingers through Dean’s. “You would really do that?”

“Mhh. If you make me.” Dean reaches out with one hand behind him and hooks one finger under the chain links between one of the pair of handcuffs still connected to the wall.

“You must really like me.”

Dean wiggles his finger and the cuffs clink softly against each other. There’s a lower sounding clack when the embedded stone meets the metal, but the sound gets lost in Dean’s next words. “You have no idea.” That gives Castiel pause, and he cranes his neck to look up at Dean.

“Actually, I think I have quite a good idea.” Castiel smiles softly, watching the light play on Dean’s face. The swelling around his eye has subsided, only the skin is still blotchy with yellow and green. The cut above his eyebrow has healed cleanly so far, a few more days and Castiel can remove the sutures.

Dean’s face seems to soften when he looks at Castiel. “Is that so?”

Castiel blinks lazily, Dean’s warmth is lulling him into a drowsy state of contentment, not yet sleep, but close. “Yeah.” There’s another metal clank when the cuffs fall back against the wall after Dean has released them.

Dean leans forward to press a kiss on Castiel’s lips, sweet and chaste, and it only serves to suck Castiel in deeper into the vortex that is his love for Dean. It’s easy to admit now, he’s in love, and at least for this moment, he is happy. Maybe it’s premature and maybe his heart will shatter in a million pieces, but right now, it doesn’t matter.

“Tell me.” Dean’s voice is only a purr, soft and commanding and Castiel feels the all-too-familiar heat stirring in his gut, something he’s come to connect irreversibly with Dean.

“Well, if you like me only half as much as I like you, then you like me very much.”

Dean hums, but there is electricity in the air now, like static building up between their bodies. “Half as much as you like me, huh?” Dean’s voice has dropped, a low grumble that ignites a fire under Castiel’s skin, a burning want, all centered on Dean. “I wonder just how much that is.” Castiel shuffles a bit in the confined space between Dean and the edge of the bed to turn around and face him. Dean isn’t wearing anything else but a pair of pants, that he’s borrowed from Castiel, and his skin is warm and tempting.

“Much.” Castiel grins lazily, tracing a finger over the exposed part of Dean’s chest. “Very much.” He’s in an unusual mood, wanting to tease Dean for some inexplicable reason. He gets a smile as a reward, wide and bright eyed, and it makes Castiel’s heart flutter in his chest.

“Maybe I should tie you up after all and make you tell me, you little tease.” Dean’s growl summons the memories of the day before, the wet heat of Dean’s mouth on his cock and Castiel feels more than a little hot and bothered right now.

“Why are you so insistent on tying me up?” Castiel asks, moving closer to get his mouth on Dean’s skin, sucking, kissing; devouring the taste that clings to Dean, unique and heady, like a drug he can’t get enough of.

“Because I don’t want you to leave.” The statement is sober, with an almost somber tone, and Castiel stills. He’s not talking about Castiel leaving the room to do his duty; he’s talking about Castiel leaving Dean because-

There’s not a single reason in the world that Castiel can think of that would make him leave Dean, but Dean doesn’t know that. Dean has only eleven more days to live, and Castiel wonders for a moment if Dean only clings on to him, because he’s the only one there, if he’d not much rather have someone else than Castiel with his lack of experience and a burdened past.

A sour feeling builds in his stomach at that thought, and once he’s gone on that tangent, he can’t seem to stop. He tries to tell himself that what Dean told him yesterday must have had some meaning, but what if he just wanted someone to confess to? Die with a clean conscience, leave with no regrets and a good fuck to send him off?

He knows that he’s thinking himself into a down spiral, each argument just treads loose another set of stones, tumbling down on the little tent of comfort he’s built up around him. There’s a bitter taste in the back of his throat, his skin feels cold and clammy from sweat and there’s a distinct nausea building up.

Dean’s arms tighten around him, worry forming on his face as he waits for Castiel’s reply. “Cas?”His voice sounds small all of a sudden, a hollow noise in the too empty room. It’s like he’s lost now, without Castiel, and somehow that’s like a punch in the gut for him. There’s no reason, no logical reason whatsoever, for Dean to ‘waste’ his last days with someone he doesn’t truly like, there’s no reason for him to lie, honestly, why did he even think that he would? It’s so ridiculous that Castiel almost laughs.

But maybe doubt is something normal under these circumstances and - not to forget - being in love for the first time.

“Do you really like me?” He asks instead, not because he’s doubting, but because he wants to hear it, wants to hear Dean telling him again, and again, until the room is filled with nothing but words. He puts a hand on Dean’s cheek, fingers just shy of the healing bruise and he looks into those eyes that he can’t possibly find the right words to describe.

Dean looks at him for a moment, just looks at him, expression unreadable. Whatever it is that he’s seeing on Castiel’s face seems to be what he had been looking for though, because he smiles and kisses him, languid and deep, an echo of their earlier passion, but still chaste. There’s much in that kiss, so many things Dean just says with his lips, with the way his fingers tighten their grip on him, with the brightness in his eyes when he pulls back again, in the slant of his mouth when he just keeps that smile.

How could he have ever doubted that? No matter how little they know each other, no matter how short the time they spent with each other, there is no question about how deeply Dean feels for Castiel.

And there is no question that Castiel loves Dean with all his heart.

* * *

 

Dean finally lets Castiel out of his arms when both their hunger for sustenance outgrows the hunger for closeness, and Castiel leaves with the promise to be back as soon as possible with food and more water. They’ve spent the last few hours with talking and touching, the slants of their bodies slotted together, lips almost always in direct proximity to each other, Castiel living as much on Dean’s breath as Dean on Castiel’s. The remaining embers gave out sometime through it, but neither of them had cared at that point. They don’t need to see to reaffirm each other’s company.

The halls outside Dean’s room are dark, it’s late evening and there’s no need to light the tallow lamps if it’s just the three of them. Rachel and Castiel are the only two who permanently stay here, Castiel because he has no other place to go and Rachel because she refuses to leave him alone. It’s cold outside of the bed and the fire-warmed room. The warmth from the sun outside doesn’t reach this deep down into the bowels of the Stadium. There’s no need for the sun here, where only the sick and the dying reside.

The quarters where the servants and workers sleep are just one level above, and underneath are the cells for the prisoners, for those who come here to be executed. Dean would be there, if his injuries wouldn’t require special care, and if the Master wouldn’t have decided that he wants Dean’s death to be an example to his people. And as sick as that makes Castiel feel, he’s also grateful that he gets to spend this time with Dean, even if it’s just a little.

The kitchen is empty when he arrives. It’s kind of a stretch to call it a kitchen, it’s more of a storage room with a small fireplace. They get food and provisions from the city, most of which ends up in the upper level kitchen that’s used to provide for both staff and the Fighters, but Rachel makes sure that their little medical unit gets their fare share of rations, (even though fair in no way translates to enough to properly sustain everyone). She’s also the one in charge of assigning cooking and cleaning duties to their attendees, and basically the whole thing would long have collapsed around Castiel, had it not been for Rachel’s firm hand and guidance.

Rachel is the saving grace of this place, Castiel is a good doctor for sure, but he can’t deal well with people. There’s no doubt in Castiel’s mind that the Overseer, who is in charge of the Stadium in the Master’s name, would love to fire him, weren’t it for the fact that the Master himself hired him. How Rachel always manages to coax him into giving them what they need is beyond Castiel. The Overseer is a greedy man, he’s only interested in the profit his men can bring him, and in his eyes Castiel’s only function is to cost him money, but the Master’s word is law and so he has to tolerate him.

It’s no surprise that the supplies in the kitchen are sparse, the next delivery is scheduled tomorrow and despite Rachel’s convincing abilities, they always run low at the end of the week. (It’s their luck that cloth for bandages is so cheap and that Castiel can collect most of the herbs he needs himself.) What little else they have is mostly improvised or remnants of Castiel’s time in the guild, like his sewing kit. And thankfully, sometimes the sponsors offer them generous monetary donations when Castiel managed to save their favorite, but those usually go into purchasing all the medical equipment the Overseer fails to supply. And more often than not, fancy treatment for the donator’s favorite.

There’s bread and some cheese, and he remembers seeing some old apples there when he was here last, but the apples are gone now and the bread is hard like a rock. Sometimes he wonders how many men he lost because of bad food. The cheese is hard too, but at least it’s mold-free, not like that one time when they had to fast for two days, because all they had left was cheese and it was moldy. Not the good kind.

 It didn’t used to be so bad, the old Overseer was quite generous; he was the one allowing Castiel his oil lamp and a few other luxuries, he now has to fight to protect. But they’ve gotten a new one last year, and his only interest is money, and ever since then the death rate has gone up in his chambers.

They’ve rationed, started to use triage and put a lock on the medical closet, but rations are running thin, and now he has wasted a lot on Dean, but he refuses to use the word waste in his mind, because it was worth it. And the liniments were made from herbs he picked himself, so at least he can personally restock. He should probably go soon, before the culmination and he’ll be flooded with patients again.

It’s late, Rachel must have already eaten, so Castiel can take the bread and cheese without feeling too much guilt that he’s taking their last supplies. And Dean hasn’t really eaten much so far besides the herbal brew Castiel made him, a few crumbs of bread and one lonely apple Rachel had procured for Castiel yesterday, and if he has to stick back a bit to get Dean his first full meal in days, then so be it. It’s the least he can do to make up for neglecting Dean’s needs like that.

He takes the plate back to Dean’s room, wondering what his old comrades would say if they saw him like that. With nothing more than a measly piece of bread and some old cheese, his meal for the day. How far he’s fallen. All the promise he had had, all the skill and experience Naomi had thrown in his face, the knowledge he had wasted by defying the guild, in Naomi’s eyes the biggest crime he committed. She cared about losing Balthazar, not because he was important, but because he was a member, a head filled with knowledge and skill she could use. And Castiel had wasted it, as he had wasted his own, because he had screwed up and disgraced them.

He used to think life was complicated. But in fact it is really simple. There are rules, and when you break one, you get punished. That was Naomi’s life philosophy. Rules are there to make life simple, except when it’s not. He used to think life was complicated when he went to safe people fighting in a war without a cause. But that was simple, Naomi’s order was simple. And then he left to care for people who died a causeless death. And that was simple too.

Because death is always simple.

And then came Dean. And with that all the simplicity is gone.

 Dean smiles when Castiel enters the room, it’s just a soft tilt of lips, but it’s enough to make all the dark thoughts fall away from Castiel. Life seems simple again, there’s just Dean and nothing matters besides Dean. It doesn’t matter that the bread is so hard that Dean winces when he takes his first bite, it doesn’t matter that the cheese lacks salt and tastes like nothing, it doesn’t matter that Castiel will go to bed hungry, because Dean needs the sustenance more and it doesn’t matter that he has to lie with a smile that he just ate an apple on the way here. It doesn’t matter, because in this moment he’s here with Dean, and no one can take that away.

“If I didn’t know it better I would think you’re trying to poison me.” Dean jokes after he’s managed to chew through the last part of the bread. He grimaces at the taste, but doesn’t complain further and moves on to finish the last bit of cheese. Castiel wishes he could get him some fresh fruit, grapes from the local wine plantations, some pears or maybe cherries from the traders that come in from the South. Outside, the streets are lined with stalls and tables, food from all around the world and it’s not for the first time that Castiel thinks he should just go and restock himself.

There’s an image in his head, of Dean spread out on the bed, opening his mouth obediently for Castiel to feed him grapes. He can feel the touch of Dean’s lips on his skin when he pushes the grape in, can see the teasing look in his eyes when he trails his tongue over Castiel’s fingers, long after he’s swallowed down the grape. But it feels strangely inappropriate at the moment so Castiel shakes it from his mind.

“Seriously, is this all you guys get to eat?”

Castiel shrugs, he’s long over the point in time where he could get angry at the circumstances of his life. At least that’s what he thinks he is, but when he sees the indignation on Dean’s face he’s not so sure anymore. He wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t wrong when he tried to save the girl’s life, and no matter how much Naomi thought he needed to be punished, he doesn’t deserve this, does he? He can’t tell anymore. It had been right for so long that he isn’t sure if he even has the right to feel that it’s wrong. (It’s wrong, it’s wrong, it’s wrong. It has to be. But the fault doesn’t lie with him; it lies with the system that forces young men to fight simply for entertainment. Favor bought with blood.

“It’s enough.” He says, because it’s the only thing he can say. Even though it’s not the truth. Dean doesn’t reply anything, at least not with words, but he’s giving him a look, eyebrows pulled up, mouth slanted in that way that forms an unspoken question.  

The plate is empty, only crumbs left, and so is their pantry. Castiel wonders what they’ll get tomorrow, how much it will be and how long it will last. They used to get a feast of their own during the Mesmeralias, but not anymore. Now, they’ll get even less than usual, because they don’t have any Fighters in their chambers to care for, and for the Overseer that’s as good as an excuse as any. But it’s not that bad, not yet. Castiel still has a bit of money left, saved up for bad times, and if worse comes to worst he can go out and buy them food.

But Dean doesn’t have to know all that, because he’ll be dead at the end of the festivities. There’s no need to burden him with further worries, so Castiel just smiles and takes the plate out of Dean’s hand to put it on the table.

Dean watches him from his place on the bed with a fond expression. It makes Castiel’s heart bleed to see it, because it’s so promising, and he wants nothing more than to keep it there forever. There’s a stinging sensation in his eyes, but he won’t cry, not now, not as long as Dean is still here with him. He won’t bitter their time together by crying.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asks, and Castiel sighs, because even they have known each other for only a few days, it’s already impossible to hide anything from him.

Castiel sits down on the bed and lets Dean pull him down with him. “Nothing.” He says softly, “I’m fine.” And because they both know that it’s a lie, and because both know that there is nothing that they can do about it, Dean accepts it.

“Okay.”

They just lie like that for a while, at some point Dean pulls the blanket up over both of them and Castiel allows him to tug him in.

“Are you in pain?” Castiel asks after a while. It’s so easy to forget that Dean is injured, and Castiel doesn’t like to think about why Dean is so proficient in putting on a brave face.

“No, I’m fine.” Dean’s face is illuminated by the light of the rekindled fire, it makes the bruise on his cheek almost disappear, but the cut on his forehead stands out even sharper. Firewood is another thing that’s constantly sparse, but Castiel never lights the fire in his own chambers, so he could justify using another log in Dean’s room.  It’s always so simple to bend the rules when it comes to Dean.

Especially his own rules.

“I could make you another tea.” Castiel offers, even though he doesn’t really feel inclined to leave the warmth of Dean’s arms.

“I’m fine, really.” Dean smiles, and there’s that fondness again and Castiel’s whole body feels warm and tingly. “But you know what? I could use something else?” Dean’s hand is hot against the small of his back, even through the fabric of his shirt. It’s that gesture, more than his words, that shows Castiel what he’s referring to.

“I’m not sure about that. As your doctor I would have to perform a thorough examination of your condition first.” Castiel says flatly, and for a moment there is confusion on Dean’s face, before his face lights up into a grin.

“Examination, huh? Do I have to get naked for that?”

Castiel gives him an appraising glance, letting his eyes trail over the body parts he can see. Dean sucks in a breath as his cheeks flush under Castiel’s scrutiny. “It would certainly help.” Castiel finally says and Dena’s tongue flicks out to wet his lips, an unconscious gesture for sure, but nonetheless alluring. Not that Dean needs to do much to get Castiel hot under the collar.

Dean smirks and trails a finger down Castiel’s chest. There’s a promising glint in his eyes that sends a rush of heat through Castiel’s body. The blanket is way too hot all of a sudden, and he can’t get it off fast enough.

He doesn’t think, he just knows he has to get Dean naked now, has to touch and taste, every spot on his body, until his shape is etched irremovably into his memory. Dean’s breathing is erratic already and he fumbles just as badly as Castiel does, to rid them both of their clothes, and then Dean seriously challenges his restraint by leaning in and whispering against his ear.

“I think there’s something wrong with me doc. I feel so hot and I’m sweating, and my body does this weird thing…” He drags Castiel’s hand down to push against his erection, moaning as he makes contact and Castiel has a short moment to panic, because this is still so new, but then he sees the expression on Dean’s face, the bliss and the absolute trust, and really, how could he ever screw this up?

Dean is perfect, beautiful, and he’s his.

It’s a rush, no time for elegance, just heated flesh against flesh, wet breath on skin and the fire-lit air filled with their tumbling voices. And when he comes, it’s like sparks that fire off behind his eyes, his vision blurring into white light and for a moment the whole world seems to be made of Dean and only Dean, and the sugar sweet song of his voice as he cries out in pleasure. Dean comes only moments later, gripping on to Castiel’s arm, all muscles clenching and then relaxing at once, and his seed mingles with Castiel’s, inextricably linked, like their lives that he’ll never be able to separate again.

He feels weak afterwards, no strength left, but it’s nothing like the exhaustion he knows from the battle field, or the bone deep tiredness he feels after he’s lost another patient to death. He feels sated, and deeply contented, like he’s finally found the answer to the puzzle of his life. Like the last piece has finally been found, and he’s allowed to take his rest.

“So in other news, it appears I have corrupted you.” Dean’s voice is breathless, filled with the same content that Castiel feels.

“I don’t feel corrupted.”

Dean laughs, a soft sound, fluttering through the air and settling like a blanket over them. Castiel is loath to get up, but the mess on their stomachs won’t go away on its own, and he really doesn’t want to wake up with dried cum on his belly. Even if it’s Dean’s. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him when he gets up to find an unused piece of cloth that he can dedicate to remove their semen from now on. Thankfully there’s still water in the bucket, even if it’s cold.

“No.” Dean says after Castiel has long climbed back into bed with him, arms wrapped around each other, fire burned down to ember again. “You’re not corrupted. You’re pure and bright. You’re an angel.”  

Castiel doesn’t know what to say. He would point out that his history doesn’t invite such a judgment, but Dean is aware of that. And then Dean’s head drops, his mouth hangs slightly open and Castiel realizes that he’s falling asleep.

The last thing Dean says is nothing more than a whisper, mumbled from the depth of sleep.

“My angel.”


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel wakes up with the distinct sensation that something is wrong. He’s used to waking up to a dark room, they don’t have windows down here and it’s too expensive to keep a light source on the whole night. It had taken a while until Castiel’s circadian cycle had adjusted, but now his inner clock works well enough with perpetual darkness.

So it isn’t the darkness that tipped him off. Neither is it the unfamiliar bed or room he woke up in. And it is certainly not the warm body pressed against him from behind, arms encircling him and the soft and steady breath on his neck. It feels nice, better than he could have ever imagined, to wake up in Dean’s arms, warm and loved. The sensation is bone-deep, satisfaction suffusing him until he fels like glowing with it.

But cordial feelings aside, Castiel can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. Dean is still asleep, breath ghosting over Castiel’s neck in a steady rhythm, arms loose but firm enough in their position around Castiel to keep him in place. He tries to look around without disturbing Dean, but it’s still too dark to see much else besides shadows and vague outlines. The embers have burned out over the night; the fireplace is dark and filled with cold ash.

The room is silent, but there is something in the air that isn’t right and it takes Castiel a few moments to realize just what it is. There’s a hint of a draft in the room, something that only happens when the door is open.

He cranes his head around and there it is, a thin strip of slightly brighter darkness around the spot where the door is. Someone must have opened it during the night and not close it afterwards, but Castiel has the distinct suspicion that the sound of the door opening was what had woken him.

Dean grumbles something and turns slightly, arm sliding off of Castiel, his nose pressing against Castiel’s back, as he falls back into deep sleep. Castiel carefully extracts himself from Dean, the cool air of the room greeting him with a shiver as he steps on the cold stone floor. Without the fire the temperature quickly loses to the cold stone walls. The stones lining the fireplace used to be imbued with a special magic that stored the heat and slowly emitted it to the room, long after the fire burned out, but it’s drained now - refilling way too expensive. Castiel slips on his clothes that still lie around on the floor. It’s not that much of an improvement, the clothes have soaked up the cold from the stone floor, but it’s better than nothing.

Castiel leans over Dean, hand resting in his hair while he presses a soft kiss to his temple. He adjusts the blanket so that Dean won’t get cold, before he turns around to go inquire who came to disturb them. He’s pretty sure it had been Rachel, there is no one else her after all, but there must have been a reason why she left without disturbing them.

Rachel awaits him in the common room, a cup of steaming hot tea in hands and another one on the table. (The tea is a courtesy of Castiel’s herb supply, and their main food source when food supplies are sparse.) It’s a stretch to call it a common room, it’s more like an unused supply closet with a few chairs stuffed in it along with an old crooked table.

Rachel greets him with a nod as he sits down opposite of her. He takes a sip from the tea and allows himself to relax for a moment before he leans back into the uncomfortable chair and faces his subordinate.

“Castiel I’m worried.” She sets down her cup to look at him, the worry clearly written on her face. “You’re getting too close to that…” She grimaces, and it’s apparent that her opinion of Dean isn’t exactly high. “He’s a criminal, you shouldn’t forget that.” Others might have danced around the subject, but Rachel has always been direct like that. It’s one of the reasons Castiel likes her.

He studies her for a moment, takes in the shadows under her eyes from too much worry and too little sleep. Rachel doesn’t like idling, even if there is nothing to do, she’ll find something to keep her hands busy. They’re alike in that matter, Castiel usually has to be coaxed into taking a break by Rachel and he has done the same for her more often than not. They’re both like that, thinking of someone else’s wellbeing before their own. She’s frowning now though, a straight line between her eyes and a distinct unhappy tilt to her mouth. She has his best interest in mind, but right now she needs to understand that Dean is in Castiel’s best interest.

“Is that why you came to Dean’s chamber earlier?” He keeps his voice calm, polite, but it’s a clear signal that his and Dean’s relationship is not open for discussion. Rachel won’t like it but she will respect it. And whatever she might think of their relationship, he trusts her implicitly not to do anything that would harm him.

Rachel stares at him for a moment, brows creased into a frown and Castiel half expects her to object but she just bows her head slightly, acknowledging his unwillingness to discuss the matter. Sometime she thinks that Rachel is far more a soldier than he ever was.

“No, I actually came in search for you to discuss the upcoming supply delivery.” She takes another sip of her tea before she pulls out a wrinkled sheet of paper from somewhere out of her clothes. “I put together a list of requests, and I’d like you to go through it and add whatever you think is necessary. I have not much hope though. It doesn’t hurt to try though, as the saying goes.” She shrugs dismissively, but Castiel knows that it’s a sore spot for her.

She hands the paper off to Castiel and pulls out another one, equally wrinkled. “Here’s the list of what has been used the past week, as usual.” She hands him the second paper and leans back in her chair, waiting for Castiel to finish reading. Rachel has been cataloguing their expenses for years now, dutifully and precise, up to the exact number of apples that had been consumed. But the request list is new, and as she said, there’s not much hope, but they can always try.

“We have a shortage of firewood and we also need to stock up on beddings and blankets for the patients. The straw needs to be exchanged in most beds and at least two beds are suffering from woodworms. We have only one bag of flour left and I had to discard a whole sack of potatoes due to mold a few days ago, we should definitely look into that. Mold in the pantry would be fatal. I’ve also requested new clothes for the winter, but I fear we’ll have to pay for staff equipment out of our own pocket.”

She sighs heavily and rubs a hand over her eyes. Castiel suddenly wonders if she has even slept that night. He finishes with the first list and takes the second to read through later. “We’re low on some medical liniments and salves, but I’m planning on making new ones soon. But I need to collect Aconite and Agrimony soon, I’ve used up most of what I have in stock.” Castiel taps his finger against the table, running through his mental inventory of the herbarium. “And I used up all my Comfrey supplies on Dean.”

“You should go out to the market. There are a lot of merchants with exotic goods during the Mesmeralias.” Rachel suggests and takes back the request list. “The Andrographis you bought last time was very effective. Besides, prices are reasonable this time of the year.”

“I doubt we can still afford reasonable.” Castiel points out with a sigh. Sure, he had made a good price back then, but back then he didn’t have to worry that he might need the money he just spent for exotic herbs for food. “I doubt I will get any herbs from the market this year. We will have to do with what Mother Nature gives us.”

“Hopefully the festival guests won’t trample everything in their fervor.” Rachel comments dryly after emptying the last of her cup. “The supplies should be delivered shortly before noon, I’ll meet you in front.” Rachel folds the paper and stuffs it back into one of the many pockets of her coat. She takes her empty cup and stands up, looking down at him for a moment with an expression he can’t quite name. “Be careful.” She says softly before turning around and walking out through the door. He doesn’t have to try long to guess what she’s referring to. The question however is, did she warn him about Dean or about what it might do to him when he loses him.

And maybe there is not so much of a difference between the two.

* * *

 

Dean is awake when Castiel returns to their room. He’s sitting on the bed with his back to the wall, blanket draped over his legs. The fire is burning again and Castiel is torn between chastising him for possibly upsetting his injuries or for thanking him for re-warming the room. He settles for glaring (ineffectively) at the fire and smiling at Dean.

“Where have you been?” Dean asks and lifts the blanket up to invite him in. It’ still cold in the room, the fire didn’t have the time yet to warm up the air. Castiel quickly inspects the remaining supply of firewood, before he climbs on the bed to sit next to Dean. It’s not really a surprise that the firewood is nearly gone, only one log and a few measly twigs remain. There’s supposed to be more in their supply closet, but from what he has gathered from Rachel’s list that will most likely be empty too.

He didn’t intend to let Dean know about his worries, but he must have picked up on something because he frowns and asks: “Something wrong?”

And Castiel answers in the affirmative, even though he didn’t intend to do so, but it just seems natural to confide in Dean. If he can trust anyone, it’s got to be him, doesn’t it?

Dean looks at him with a raised eyebrow and Castiel feels the faint heat of a blush rise on his cheeks when he realizes that he’s supposed to elaborate on that and that he’s effectively been staring at Dean for five seconds straight without even realizing it. He can’t say the view is not inviting though.

“We’re suffering from a shortage of supplies due to administrational changes.” Castiel explains, wondering into how many details he should go, and the thought is more painful than expected, because he can’t help but think that Dean will be dead in ten days and that it doesn’t matter what or what not he tells him. Because it will be inconsequential, no matter what.

“Administrational changes? Is that fancy-talk for ‘my new boss is an ass’?”

Castiel, despite his dark thoughts, can’t help but chuckle softly, causing an even wider smile to spread on Dean’s lips, and yes, Dean’s time is limited, but that doesn’t make their time together any less wasted if their talking about Castiel’s sorrows. Not when Dean takes so much genuine interest in his problems.

“Yes, that sums it up pretty well.”

“Tell me about it.”

“A new Stadium Overseer was assigned last year and he has been not as liberal with providing goods for the infirmary as the old one. We survived the last winter mainly by relying on our stocked supplies, but those have been used up by now, and I am quite worried about the coming winter.”

Somehow just talking about it, already makes it easier. It feels like part of his worries have been lifted from him, simply by sharing them.

Dean frowns and pulls Castiel closer to him so that he can rest his head on Dean’s shoulder. “That’s pretty bad, isn’t it?”

“Yes Dean, that is pretty bad.”

“Can’t you get donations or something like that? I mean there have to be tons of people watching and I bet there are some rich folks who get off on this shit. They surely would pay to get their favorite some extra treatment.” Castiel entwines his fingers with Dean’s, resting both their hands on Dean’s knees. 

He should check on Dean’s injuries soon, change the bandages, apply another layer of liniment, but right now he’s too comfortable.

“They already do that. But most of it goes to special treatments for the favorites, little ends up down here. But the idea was a good one, regardless.”

“That’s too bad.” Dean sounds like he really means it and Castiel is stunned once again. Sometimes it’s hard for him to wrap his head around that this is really happening. That Dean is real and with him.

Dean watches him silently as he thinks, his thumb rubbing comforting circles on the back of his hand, and Castiel wonders how he had been able to live like this, without someone to share his worries with, without someone who would support and encourage him. He wonders how he could have ever lived without Dean in his life.

“Is that the reason why we haven’t had breakfast yet?” Dean asks after a while, pulling Castiel out of his musings.

“Unfortunately, yes. We expect a delivery of supplies today, so I will make it up to you with a healthy lunch hopefully.”

“Oh I know a few other ways for you to make it up to me.” He doesn’t need to look to see the smirk on Dean’s lips, it’s almost as if there’s a physical change in the air, a sort of tension that sends a pleasant shiver down his spine.

“I’m afraid that will have to wait for after lunch. I want to change your bandages first, and then I’ll have to meet up with Rachel to receive our supplies and I should at least attempt to get some work done.”

Dean is silent for a moment, and Castiel contemplates looking up to check if he said something wrong but then, “I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to keep you away from your duty.” The words are soft and with a hint of guilt, spoken into his hairline and then Dean’s gentle lips press against his hair.

“You haven’t kept me from anything. I am here of my own volition and I will remain here for as long as I deem necessary or chose otherwise.” There’s silence again, followed by an amused chuckle that tickles against the skin of his head.

“Alright doctor, you’re the boss.”

“Indeed  I am. Now let me check on your injuries.”

* * *

 

Receiving the supply delivery is a thing of minutes. Or it would be if Rachel hadn’t gotten into an argument with the Overseer’s representative who surveys the whole thing. And Castiel as much as he despises conflict, has to admit that Rachel has a right to every point she’s making.

They are starving, and as much as a the Overseer likes to think that starving them will help him save money, ultimately he just burns out a lot of good Fighters he could milk out for a while longer. Castiel cringes at Rachel’s choice of words, but has to concede that point as well, because it’s the only language these men understand.

“I don’t care how hard it is to get good quality silver these days; do you know how many Fighters we already lost because of that piss-poor excuse of silver you gave us for needles? Or need I remind you that one of them was one of your precious favorite and how upset the High Patriarchs were when their beloved hero died because the needle _splintered?_ ”

Castiel grimaces as he listens to Rachel’s tirade. He hates to remember that certain incident, because it could have been prevented with a little more care. One of the attendees had stitched the man up, just a small cut in his leg, nothing bad, but he had used one of the cheap needles the Overseer had provided them with. Castiel hadn’t thought anything of it, they were cheap but they always took care with disinfecting their instruments and so far the needle had worked just fine. But then it splintered, leaving tiny shards of what later turned out to be silvered iron in the wound. Ever since then the only needle that was in use was the one Castiel brought with him, but one needle wasn’t nearly enough after a long day in the Stadium.

The Overseer had proven his remorse by proposing a death sentence for the poor attendee, and the Master had signed without a second thought.

“Now tell me, how much did it cost you to find and train another Fighter into a favorite?”

Rachel folds her arms in front of her chest, glaring at the man in front of her, waiting patiently for him to crumble so that he was open to whatever she suggested next. Sometimes Castiel thinks it’s almost like a work of art. But there are boundaries to what even Rachel can get out of people, and so he crosses his fingers behind his back, while pretending to go through the pile of crates that holds all their food and supplies for the next week.

They’ll have to carry them down into the infirmary on their own, but that’s usually the least of their problems. There’s a list along with the crates but Castiel has given up on checking the items listed, because usually the contents have nothing to do with what is written down. (They have a word for that, license of shortage and Castiel hates every mention of it.) The delivery is ample this week, mostly thanks to the Mesmeralias and the spirit of giving and sharing that goes with it. So there’s at least that.

It’s not for the first time that he realizes that without Rachel the whole thing would just collapse on his head. They would have run out of stock months ago and Castiel would have wasted all his saved money on things that Rachel conned and bugged out of the Overseer with her amazing skills in negotiating.

They carry the crates back together as Castiel gives Rachel a rundown on what they got this time. It’s a thing of routine between them, both calculating in their heads how long the food will last, the medical equipment, and they’re both building a plan in their heads, how long they might last with what they got this time. They’ll compare later and meet somewhere in the middle. This strategy has proven to work best over the year.

It’s easier in the two weeks of the Mesmeralias. There’s one last fight at the beginning, but it’s only a show fight to honor the tradition and then they have empty beds for two weeks. And they get a lot of fresh supplies, courtesy of the festivities. A lot of people, the rich and the noble mostly, ease their social conscience by donating food, and this year, they have undoubtedly been lucky. They have a whole box of fresh fruit and vegetables, even a small piece of dried meat - a luxury.

 Castiel usually goes into the slums during that time to see what he can do for the poor and those who can’t afford a healer. But this year he’s been distracted by Dean, and even if he had the equipment to spare, he doubts he would go out, because as selfish as that may be, the thought of leaving Dean for even a few hours, _hurts_.

That’s also why he leaves Rachel to do the rest of the sorting on her own. Since they don’t have any patients - except Dean - and the attendees have left to participate in the festivities with their families, there’s not really much planning to do. She gives him a look, a mix of worry and something else, something almost soft, but her lips are pressed into a tight line and she doesn’t say anything when he leaves. But he gets the unspoken message just as well.

* * *

 

Castiel is distracted. He can’t help it, there’s too much he has to worry about, too much he has to consider. Dean notices of course, but Castiel feels like he has no right to burden him with his sorrow. He has little doubt that the Overseer will probably come down and throw a hissy fit at some point about the expensive equipment Rachel has demanded, that’s how it usually goes at least. The Overseer comes down, complains and then Rachel explains in very fine detail why this expensive investment is worth it in the end.

Greed is a strong motivator after all.

He gets distracted from his distraction when Dean slowly undresses him, takes his time with him, until he’s all sweaty and breathless, until the only word that falls from his mouth is Dean. And for a little while longer after that when he kneels between Dean’s legs, fingers pressed into shivering skin as he works his mouth to the tune of Dean’s voice, consumed by the strange urge to take him all in with his body, let him deep inside of him until he can feel nothing but Dean.

“Talk to me Cas.” Dean prompts once they’ve both descended from their highs. Dean has his arms wrapped around him, bodies pressed together intimately, and yet, Castiel’s mind keeps drifting to his conversation with Rachel earlier this morning.

“What about?” Castiel asks softly, hand splayed out on Dean’s stomach. He can feel it move with every breath Dean takes, the strength of the muscles underneath. It’s like he’s connected to Dean in some profound way, like he can feel the pure essence of his life through the palm of his hand.

“You’re worried.”

“Yes.” There is no reason to deny it, not when it’s this obvious.

Dean sighs and stubs a finger in Castiel’s ribs. “Don’t make me play dirty.”

“Rachel has expressed her worry that I’m getting to close to my charge.” He pauses for a moment, considering. It’s not what he intended to say, it’s not what has been bothering him, but now that he’s said it, he realizes that it’s no less the truth. He _doesn’t care_ about their supplies or how often he will have to go hungry. He doesn’t care that they might run out of firewood soon or that he might have to let go of some of his attendees in order to provide for the others. “You.” He adds quietly, after the realization has settled in.

All he can care about is Dean, and everything beyond the ten days they have left together is no longer of importance to him.

“And, are you getting too close?”

“Undoubtedly.” Castiel says and for some reason he’s smiling. Rachel is right, sharp-minded Rachel, loyal to a fault and worried because she genuinely cares. But there’s nothing she can do, because it’s already too late. He is too close to Dean and he doesn’t care one bit.

Dean is silent after that. His fingers card idly through Castiel’s hair, an unconscious but nevertheless comforting gesture and Castiel feels like this is a moment he wants to conserve for eternity.

“I used to be mocked,” Castiel says, “For having too much heart.”

If Dean understands the implication, he doesn’t let on to it.

And Castiel wants to tell him then, how much he’s come to care over this little time. How much Dean means to him, and how empty he thinks his world will be once he’s gone. But he already understands how Dean will inevitably take the blame on his shoulders and he can’t let Dean think he’s broken Castiel when he has to go out to face his death.

“Is that so?”

“M-hm.”

“I used to think that was a bad thing. Now I’m not so sure anymore.”

Dean’s voice is like a shiver in the air, a tremble in the fabric around them. Castiel closes his eyes. The room is warm, the fire burning high, casting a red glow over them both. Nothing has changed, not physically so, but Castiel feels like something has broken, some intricate pretense that they’ve upheld until now.

Castiel is not the only one who’s willing to lose his heart.


	6. Chapter 6

Something has changed. It’s in Dean’s behavior, as much as it is in the glances he keeps throwing Castiel. But he doesn’t say anything, so Castiel lets the matter rest, content with just spending time with Dean, reading to him occasionally, but he’s interrupted by Dean’s greedy hands, more often than not.

Rachel has left to enjoy the festivities finally, after much insistence from Castiel and the assurance that nothing will break just because she’s gone for a few days. And all it takes is to see the joy in her eyes when she finally concedes, and Castiel can’t even feel bitter about the fact that he can’t take out Dean to see the celebrations.

And it leaves him the time and peace of mind to just spend the day in Dean’s arms, feeling the heat of his body against his own and wondering, always wondering, how it would feel to have Dean inside of him. He’s still mindful of Dean’s injuries though, careful to leave him in a position where he won’t put too much strain on his ribs, but there is a plan forming in his head. And idea he had when he was sucking Dean off, laid out on his back, hands fisted in Castiel’s hair and so deliciously wrecked.

“Don’t you have anywhere to be?” Dean teases lightly, hand once again carding through Castiel’s hair while his head rests, carefully placed, on Dean’s shoulder. (He wonders idly if Dean had a cat at home, if he would scratch her behind the ears like he does with Castiel. He likes that thought, of Dean happy and alive in a cozy little house, with a cat and a squealing rocking chair.)

“Actually yes.” Castiel pushes up to look at Dean, the hand in his hair following his movement, almost as if he can’t quite let go. “I have this patient I need to take care of. He’s quite a pain in the ass.” For a moment Dean just stares, but then his face splits into a huge grin and he laughs. It’s not full on, because his ribs still protest at too much movement.

Castiel can’t help it; he has to kiss those lips, even if that means he has to swallow up the laughter. Dean is surprised for a second, but then he pushes his hand down on Castiel’s neck and pulls him that fracture of an inch closer that has them nearly fused with one another. Dean tastes sweet, like the grapes Castiel fed him for breakfast (after much debating and abundant use of the ‘I am your doctor’ argument, and he mostly conceded because Castiel agreed to feed him with his mouth).

At first it’s an innocent kiss, just the need to taste each other, but Castiel is determined to get more and so he licks into Dean’s mouth until he hears the moan he’s aiming for. That only serves to fuel his hunger and he doesn’t let up until Dean is a moaning mess underneath him, lips puffy and red, glistening with saliva.

“Cas.” Dean breathes with what little air Castiel has left him. It makes Castiel almost giddy to know that he put the look of want and need on his face, the glow in his eyes. It’s like a painting he can change with just a brush of finger tips. Drawing flushed lines on Dean’s body with just his breath seems so easy, like it has become second nature to him already.

“I want you.” Castiel presses his mouth in the dip under Dean’s ear, inhaling the heady scent that is just so Dean, a hint of leather and something darker, muskier underneath that makes every nerve end in Castiel’s body spike with arousal. The scent only intensifies with Dean’s own arousal.

Dean winds his hand through Castiel’s hair, grabbing at the strands, pulling almost painfully as he tries to guide Castiel to where he wants him to be. The bandages are in the way, thick and smelly with the salve he put on Dean’s bruises earlier, and so he can reach only one of his nipples. He’s solely working on instinct now, on what his body tells him to do, and he catalogues every one of Dean’s reactions, from the soft whining noise in the back of his throat whenever Castiel teases his nipple to the almost desperate arch of his back when he allows his fingers to stray lower.

“I want you.” Castiel repeats, almost like a mantra. It’s like he’s waiting for a sign from Dean that he is allowed to continue, to take what he never realized he wanted. And Dean seems so intimately tuned to him that he picks up on it instantly, wrapping his arms around Castiel to just pull him in and hold him for a second.

“I got you alright?”

Castiel exhales, a shuddering breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and then Dean is kissing him, slow and languid. And it reminds me that they’re in this together, that this isn’t some competition he has to win on his own, that he has Dean to guide him along the way, just as he can guide Dean.

“Tell me what you want.” Dean’s voice is soft, but there’s a rough edge to it, like he’s barely holding it in himself.

“I want you inside of me.” It comes out more as a growl than intended, but there’s a shiver going through Dean’s body, juts upon hearing it and then it’s Castiel who finds himself pinned to the bed by Dean’s weight.

“You should have said so.” Dean growls right back at him, and it’s affecting Castiel so much that he even forgets to worry about the state of Dean’s injuries. They kiss again, Dean holding himself up with one hand while the other roams over Castiel’s body, playing him the same way he played Dean earlier. And every time Castiel moans or gasps, Dean is there to drink it in, to lick the sound from Castiel’s lips, swallowing everything he has to offer.

“You’ve never done this before, right?” Dean asks in between kisses, and Castiel is too wrung out to reply with more than a nod. He can feel the curve of Dean’s smile against his skin, warm and with a hint of mischief. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

And he has. Castiel had some vague ideas on how this is supposed to work and he worked out on his own that he should be able to ride Dean without straining his injuries too much. But as Dean teaches him now with nimble fingers, there is so much more to it than that.

They had to make do, with some of Castiel’s salves, because Dean outright refuses to touch him dry, and when he feels the initial discomfort, Castiel is glad for it. But then Dean wiggles his finger just so, and every little thought is wiped from his mind. 

Dean keeps whispering words of praise and reassurance into the nape of Castiel’s neck, but he can barely spare the attention to focus on what he’s saying. Castiel lies on his side, pressed up against Dean who has his fingers disappearing in, well…

It’s madness. It must be, because Dean isn’t even touching him on his penis, and yet he’s teetering close to the edge already. And then Dean’s finger twists over that spot again and it’s all Castiel can do not to lose it right then and there. He doesn’t know how he manages to hold on long enough for Dean to finish his preparation. And when he finally pulls out his fingers, Castiel is a mess.

His skin is almost feverish, he’s covered in sweat and all he can think of is Dean and how beautiful he looks in the red glow of the fire. It’s too hot and he’s burning up from the inside. Dean fumbles around on the bed, searching for the small container of salve he had used earlier, but Castiel is only half aware of that, he’s too busy with forcing air back into his lungs.

He fears he otherwise might blow the second Dean is inside of him.

It takes him longer than it should to notice the stillness of Dean next to him and the expectant glance that comes with it. Dean has his hand wrapped around his cock, fingers slick with the salve he’s applied and he looks at Castiel like no one else ever has. It’s that look, more than the pose - all laid out on his back- that strikes Castiel as memorable, and he carefully commits it to his memory, intent on never forgetting how he felt that moment when Dean’s whole world was centered on him.

“Cas?” Dean prompts and Castiel is pulled out of his reverie. “You were the one who said I had to lie on my back. So either you hop on or I’ll have to take charge.” Castiel blinks, not exactly sure how to react to Dean’s choice of wording. “Sorry, I’m probably not the best choice to introduce you to pillow talk.” Dean grins easily, but there’s a quiver underneath, want and the need to be patient warring with each other.

That thankfully spurs Castiel into action and he carefully takes the salve out of Dean’s hand and places it somewhere on the bed it hopeful won’t be kicked off. He allows Dean to guide him into position, legs spread on either side of Dean as he carefully lowers himself down on Dean’s length.

He can’t help the hiss of air that escapes him at the first blunt press against his entrance, Dean’s hands almost instinctively tightening on his legs in an effort to ground him. Castiel lets him, lets him have the control he seems to need so desperately, despite being on his back with Castiel on top. It’s hidden, carefully stashed away for Castiel’s benefit, but he can sense it nonetheless, the tension of his shoulders, the way he almost trembles with the effort not to just shove up and fully into Castiel.

And again Castiel lets him, allows him to set the pace with which Castiel slides down, torturously slow, but oh so fulfilling. And then he’s seated, fully sheathed and he could weep with the joy of being so full of Dean, of being so close that he feels like he’s drowning in the fevered heat of his skin.

He takes one deep lung-filling breath of air.

Dean is still underneath him, waiting patiently and Castiel looks down into his perfect handsome face, a face he could trace blindly in the darkness of his mind, whose forms he has memorized to perfection. He smiles. And says one word.

“Dean.”

Castiel watches intently as Dean’s face lights up, brows creased in concentration smooth out and he smiles too. And then he snaps up his hips, angling himself deep inside of Castiel and with that he is lost again.

It’s so much better than what he’s imagined, so much more, this deep feeling of being filled up by Dean, having him _inside_ of him; it’s breathtaking. And not just because Dean seems to pound the air out of him with every thrust.

This wasn’t exactly how Castiel planned this - as far as his planning went - but with Dean moving like that underneath him, there is not much else he can do but to hold on. He digs his fingers into Dean’s shoulders, extremely mindful of his injuries, gripping tight to keep from falling off. There’s a smirk playing on Dean’s lips, and he keeps his eyes locked with Castiel’s as he keeps pushing in. Castiel tries to move in tune with him as best as he can, but it’s so hard to focus on his own movements when Dean keeps pushing against that spot in him that makes his blood buzz with pleasure.

Slowly, Dean picks up the pace, dragging his hands down Castiel’s chest, flicking a finger against one of his nipples, forcing a shudder through Castiel’s body. He feels all too warm, heat burning under his sweat-slick skin. Dean’s hands fit perfectly around his hips, blunt nails dragging over skin and then he holds fast as he increases his speed.

The force of it brings Castiel forward, he bends over Dean’s lying form, trapping his own cock between their bodies. He tries to put his weight on his arms next to Dean’s head, but after another pointed forceful thrust his arms give way and he barely manages not to drop with all his weight on Dean.

Dean sneaks one arm around his back, keeping him close while he continues his relentless thrusts, drawing more and more filthy sounds from Castiel’s lips every time he hits that sensitive spot inside of him. He’s long past the point of caring if he’s too loud, there’s no one there to hear them anyway. He isn’t the only one though. At first Dean had been more or less quiet, aside from the occasional grunt, but with increasing speed he seems to lose his composure as much as Castiel does. He’s moaning just as bad as Castiel, and every now and then he lets out a groaned curse.

“Fuck, Cas.”

Castiel’s grip tightens on Dean’s shoulder, where he put his hands again after his collapse. He would have never guessed it, but hearing Dean’s voice this wrecked, moaning his name, is almost too much for him to handle. The new position adds some well needed friction to his penis and Castiel lets out an especially loud moan. Dean keeps talking, murmuring strings of nonsense mixed in with ‘fucks’ and ‘Cas’ and just listening to him alone is almost enough to make him lose it.

He’s close now, he can feel the heat and tension build up in his stomach, a wave that is close to crash and all it needs is-

Dean does something with his hips, a gyrating movement of sorts, and the next thing Castiel knows he’s floating. He has a faint recollection of heat crashing through him, stars exploding, galaxies created and destroyed within nanoseconds, of a deep profoundness that has formed between him and Dean. It’s fleeting, a tingle in the tips of his fingers, a hum in his veins, but the knowledge of it is still there.

He slowly regains awareness of his surroundings, of the warm body under him, the hand that insistently cards through his hair. Dean is talking, has been for a while now, but his words only now start to make sense.

“Hey Cas, are you with me?”

“Dean.” Castiel says rather eloquently. He has difficulties to catch up, the aftermath of his orgasm still hasn’t left him. His body feels heavy, deeply sated and he doesn’t want to move, at all.

“I know I’m comfy, but you got to let me pull out at some point.”

Castiel frowns. It takes longer than it should for him to catch up with the situation. Heat shoots in his face and he looks awkwardly back down to where their bodies are still connected. “Right, apologies.”

He tries to push himself up and out, but Dean’s arms close around him and keep him in place. “There’s no rush.” He says softly and then his arms tighten and he rolls them both over until they lay on their sides. The movements cause Dean to slip out of him, and the trickle of something cool that follows tells him that Dean also came, even though Castiel has no recollection of it.

“I should-“ Castiel starts, half attempting to unwind from Dean’s embrace, but is once again stopped by him.

“Don’t go.” Dean speaks softly against his neck, thumbs drawing idle circles on his back. “Not yet.”

It’s not exactly comfortable, both with the come leaking out of his ass and the sticky mess he made between their bellies, but he can forget all that for a while, encumbered in the warmth of Dean’s arms.

The silence lasts for a long time, but Castiel can’t find a reason to complain. It’s peaceful and he finds he can lie here in Dean’s arms forever, without ever missing something. He can lean over and kiss him whenever he wants, can taste the salty heat of his skin, feel Dean’s lips on him in return. He feels like he could live from that, drinking the words that fall from Dean’s lips, feed from the heat that radiates from his skin. And he can fall asleep to the steady beat of his heart.

But all that is just an illusion. They live on borrowed time - Dean at least - but for Castiel it’s all the same. He realizes then, in that moment, that Dean will break his heart. Not on purpose, but inevitably neveretheless. He can’t imagine a life without Dean, so it might as well be over then.

It’s a sad thing to think, but Castiel can’t help it. He didn’t have much of a life after he was expelled from the guild until Dean showed up.

Maybe Dean senses his inner turmoil, or maybe he just chooses this moment by coincidence, but either way, he speaks up

 “I don’t plan on dying.”

And leaves Castiel speechless. The statement comes as a surprise, and at the same time it isn’t. It’s what he should have expected from Dean, it fits his personality so much more than to meekly accept his fate. But still, the words came as a shock, because he certainly didn’t expect them now.

But maybe that’s just it. Maybe this connection they formed was all he needed to make this decision. Maybe now that Castiel has offered himself he finally has something to fight for.

“I won’t allow them to kill me; I’m not just giving up like that. I will get out of here, if it’s the last thing I do.” He’s fierce, eyes blazing and Castiel is sure, that if he hadn’t already fallen, this would be the exact moment when he would irreversibly fall for Dean.

Castiel puts his hand on Dean’s cheek, rests it there for a moment, giving himself the time to look into his eyes, seeing the sincerity there, the certainty of his decision. He could drown in the endless depth of green, could wrap himself in every layer of emotion he finds there, and still he would discover something new in the next moment.

“I won’t let you die.” He whispers, voice thick with the tight feeling in his chest, the desperate love he feels burning underneath his skin. “I won’t.” He repeats, more fiercely this time.

So this is what it feels like to be lost so completely, that the mere thought of rebelling against the Master’s decree is just the logical conclusion of his feelings for Dean. He should be afraid, should be wary of the consequences for both of them, but he can’t be, not when the alternative would be to let Dean die.

“I can’t have you in this halfway Cas, I want you completely or not at all. This could be the last week of my life, do you understand that?”

“Of course.”

Dean’s eyes widen, almost imperceptibly and it sends a jolt of _something_ through Castiel. It’s like Dean didn’t really expect him to agree; it’s like Dean had feared all this time that Castiel would abandon him, even after what they just shared.

He smiles, but it’s tentative, timid almost.

 “Even though you know what I did?” Dean says, voice carefully neutral, but Castiel can see right through it.

“I don’t believe that you deserve this.” Dean just raises an eyebrow at him, and there’s so much disbelief there, it breaks Castiel’s heart. And all this, the thing they just shared, it seems so fragile now. Like Dean never expected it to go this far, for Castiel to actually let him in. The way his voice trembled when he begged Castiel not to get up right after. And he wonders just how much of the bravado is a façade.

“What’s the matter with you?” Castiel frowns, searching Dean’s face for an answer he already knows deep down.  “You don’t think you deserve to be saved.”

“I killed someone in cold blood, of course I don’t deserve to be saved.”

“So why do you want to escape then?” Dean is stunned then, opening and closing his mouth in succession a few times before he finally settles and shuts it completely. He takes another few moments before he finally replies.

“Because I found you.”


	7. Chapter 7

Despite his big words, Dean apparently didn’t have a plan ready yet. But Castiel didn’t expect him to. Something like this requires a lot of time, and although they don’t have much of that, it should still suffice to get them at least a few ideas. That’s what Castiel keeps telling himself throughout the night.

It’s no surprise that neither he nor Dean sleep much.

Castiel keeps wracking his head, but in the end he always comes to the same conclusion. He will have to smuggle Dean out somehow, there is no other way. The infirmary is at one of the deepest levels of the Stadium building, above only the dungeons where the prisoners are held (those who are sentenced to death, punished for a crime, or the occasional disgraced Fighter that needs to be taught a lesson).

The dungeons are a dead end, there’s no way out from there. And leaving the infirmary upwards means walking through all the other levels up to the main floor, where chances are high to run into other people. There’s only one way past them Castiel can think of. It’s risky, no doubt, but it’s also a real chance, about the only one they’ve got. And only Castiel can make it possible.

And the thought scares him. Not because it’s dangerous, no, he has seen far too much danger in his life to not know how to handle it. But because there won’t be a way back for him. There never had been much of a life here to begin with true, but this has nevertheless been his life. But it’s also true that there is nothing really holding him here. There is Rachel and his attendees, and as dear to him as they are, they are circumstantial comrades.

So really, running away with Dean is the obvious choice. Still, it makes his heart heavy to know that he will leave behind a life he had lived for years now. And as bad as it sometimes got, it was stable, it gave him at least some sort of purpose. But now he has Dean.

At least he won’t have to worry about Rachel. If she’s anything, it’s crafty, and she will definitely find an occupation that suits her better than tidying up after him. 

Dean grumbles something under his breath and snuggles closer into Castiel’s chest, shoulders incrementally tensing by something that must trouble him in his dreams. He managed to fall asleep about an hour ago, but his rest is fitful and Castiel combs a soothing hand through his hair. It’s early in the morning, but Dean needs all the rest he can get. As much as he enjoyed their encounter yesterday, he can’t help but feel bad about the strain it undoubtedly put on Dean’s body. Everything seemed fine when he checked yesterday, but that was merely superficial, there’s no way of knowing how much pain and discomfort Dean is covering up for.

The comforting touch is enough for Dean to relax again and he tightens his grip around Castiel. Castiel has barely slept, but he finds that lying like this, just holding Dean close, is enough to make him feel rested.

Hours pass, or maybe seconds, time has the habit of flying when he’s with Dean. There’s no fire lit this time, just darkness and the faint outlines of Dean’s body. He goes over his plan in his head, again and again, but there is not much he can change to make it better. It’s inherently simple, it must be, it’s one of the things he’s learned from his days with the military. Keep your plans simple and you have a better chance of success.

Still, there is so much that can go wrong.

Dean stirs, grumbling something again, and then there are warm lips on his neck, a lazy kiss and Castiel’s body instantly fills with warmth.

“Morning Cas.” Dean mumbles against the wet spot he kissed on his skin and Castiel closes his eyes at the sensation. He isn’t exactly in the mood right now, but that doesn’t mean he won’t be, if Dean keeps this up.

“Good morning Dean.” Castiel greets with a soft smile on his lips. He seems to do this a lot these days; smiling. And it’s all thanks to Dean.

Dean’s leg nudges between Castiel’s and Dean presses closer until they’re almost inseparable. He can feel Dean’s erection press against his stomach, hot and insistent. “I think I have a condition.” Dean says with a grin and places another kiss on Castiel’s neck.

There’s the voice in the back of his head that reminds him to be careful with Dean, but Dean’s body speaks an entirely different language. He’s moving slowly, grinding his hips against Castiel’s; hands rubbing up and down his back. And Castiel would have to lie to say he wasn’t the least bit affected.

“I think I need a doctor.” Dean’s voice is huskier now, colored by a promising shade of arousal.

“Maybe you should watch your health, this is the second time in two days you were in need of a doctor.” Castiel comments drily, earning him a muffled snort and a peck on the cheek.

“Maybe I’m just addicted to your services.” Dean counters and Castiel doesn’t need the light to know that Dean’s eyebrows just waggled suggestively.

“I can see that.” Castiel says with a decided stroke over the bulge in Dean’s pants - the pants Castiel coaxed him in before they went to sleep the day before. As much as he enjoys Dean’s skin on his, sleeping garments fulfill a purpose aside from modesty, and he doesn’t want Dean to catch a cold from sleeping naked in a cold room. Even more so since Dean has a future to live up to.

“Can you now? And what are you going to do about it?”

“Well in my professional opinion you need another helping of my services.” Castiel flicks a finger against the now growing bulge, smiling silently to himself when Dean swallows back a groan.

“But I would have to do an in-depth examination to make absolutely sure.” Castiel idly wonders if he’s developing  some kind of fetish. As gruesome as real medical treatments can be, especially on a battlefield, there’s a certain appeal to playing it out like this.

“Is that so?” Dean’s voice is rough around the edges, his breath hitching every time Castiel touches him. “What is with you and playing doctor?”

Castiel laughs softly, dragging a finger along the curves and angles of Dean’s body, marveling silently over the sheer beauty of it. His finger catches on a scar, scarcely healed and the feeling makes something twinge in his chest. The scent of the salve he applied to Dean’s wounds is ever present in the air, and Castiel wonders to himself how it would feel like out in the open. Only him and Dean, on a soft patch of grass, the scent of spring in the air and no blemish to mar Dean’s body.

“What’s so funny?” Dean’s voice is calm again and he starts to play with Castiel’s hair, a soft tug that has Castiel close his eyes for a moment.

“I indeed enjoy playing doctor with you.” Castiel finally takes mercy and pushes his hand under the hem of Dean’s pants. It sends a thrill through his veins to have Dean like this, sprawled out next to him and writhing from just a touch of his hand.

“So then treat me, doctor.” Dean teases with a smirk so big, Castiel could have heard it in the other room. And then Dean says something that has Castiel lose his breath for once. “I’m all yours, doctor.” He seems to not be the only one who has developed a kink.

“Really?” Castiel drops his voice even lower, knowing full well that Dean has a thing for it, and the reaction he gets proves him right. Dean shudders minutely and he puffs out a soft exhale. “You’d do everything I say? I’d take good care of you.” He keeps his hand hovering inches over Dean’s crotch, not wanting to influence his decision in any way.

There’s a silence for a moment, only broken by Dean’s panting. And when he finally replies, it has Castiel’s blood singing. “Yes.” No doctor this time, and that’s how Castiel knows that he’s serious.

It’s like a rush of pure energy shooting through his veins, and Castiel has to take a short pause just to allow the awe he feels to run through him.

“I’m sure you’ll make it good.” Dean leans over to whisper into his ear.

“Don’t move.” Castiel growls back in reply, feeling the tremble that goes through Dean’s body firsthand. Part of him is afraid that he might do something wrong, that he’ll screw up the trust Dean is obviously putting in him, but he also knows that he can do this. He’s taken care of Dean over the last few days, has healed his body and what feels like part of his soul too. He _knows_ him.

Dean lies down obediently, and even in the darkness of their room, Castiel can feel the lines of his face angled into a smile. He traces them with his fingers and then with his lips until Dean’s breath is coming out in erratic puffs. And when Dean’s mouth is sufficiently loose and swollen from kisses Castiel finally moves on to lower territory, repeating the process until Dean’s body is as pliant as it can get. And every time his fingers catch on a scar he pauses to press a kiss to the spot. He drags his teeth over the skin, pulling it in between his lips and sucks, until he’s sure that the scar is hidden under a new bruise.

Dean shudders every time he does it, along with letting out a sound that makes Castiel’s blood boil with desire. 

“Cas, please.” He moans, hands buried in Castiel’s hair, trying desperately to urge him on, but every time he exerts too much force Castiel reprimands him by withdrawing his attention until Dean groans with frustration and puts his hands down in an obvious display of surrender.

Dean is nothing more but an incoherent mess by the time Castiel reaches his lower body. It takes only a few quick tugs and he gets rid of the pants and when he catches the erection springing free with his mouth, Dean’s whole body seems to seize up. His hand falls from Castiel’s hair, scrambling desperately at the sheets for some purchase, anything to hold on to.

“Fuck Cas.” Dean groans out and Castiel simply pulls his lips into a smile around Dean’s cock in his mouth. He could get addicted to this. He’s certainly not the best at giving head, and aside from his earlier stunt it’s mostly just running on sloppy instinct, but Dean’s reactions justify all his efforts.

Castiel is hard himself, painfully so, and knowing that Dean is coming undone at the seams just because of him, puts his self control to a hard test. He has to dive away temporarily to retrieve the small jar with salve they substitute for proper lubrication. Castiel makes a mental not to get some lube later on. The liniment works and is harmless, but it’s not ideal.

He kisses away the whine that spills from Dean’s mouth as he’s left wanting. “I told you I’ll take care of you.” Castiel whispers against his skin, enjoying the scratch of stubble against his chin. Dean hasn’t shaved since the time Castiel brought him his shaving kit. Castiel likes it though. It reminds him of Dean’s strength, they’re equals in this, and everything he does to Dean is because he allows it to be done.

Preparing Dean is even sloppier than sucking him of had been, only that this time Castiel runs mostly on what he’s remembered from the time Dean had his fingers up his ass. He’s very careful, keeping a close eye on Dean’s reactions, being on high alert to pull out should Dean show any sign of discomfort. But what he gets instead is amazing. Dean is panting hard, hands closed around the bunched up sheets as he pushes himself down on Castiel’s fingers. 

Castiel wishes it wouldn’t be so dark - he can barely make out the outlines of Dean’s body as it is - so he could see the expression on Dean’s face, put a visual to the sounds he’s causing. But doing this in the dark has something deeply intimate. He can’t see Dean’s face, but he can feel every one of his reactions, can feel the unsteady rising of his chest, can feel every little stutter of said breath whenever Castiel touches that spot inside of him he has figured out must be the prostate.

(He could have counted off every little function of the prostate, every medical condition that could befall it, but he could have never guessed the effect it could have when stimulated.)

“Cas, fuck. Stop teasing.” Dean groans out and Castiel twists his finger in the right way to make him arch off his back.

“Did you want something?” Castiel asks with fake innocence, pulling out and draping his body over Dean’s, pressing his still clothed erection to Dean’s in an obvious show of what is to come.

“Cas, fuck, please.” Dean’s breath is ragged, body strung taut as he trembles under every little touch.  Castiel takes pity on him. Besides, he wants this just as badly. It takes way too long to pull off his clothes, and he’s way too hasty when it comes to lubing himself up, but then he’s stricken by a sudden sense of panic.

So far everything went well, but he has never done this before and what if he hurts Dean?

“Cas,” Dean is pushing himself up on his elbows, trying to get a good look at Castiel in the darkness. “Don’t you dare stop now.” Dean’s hand finds his somewhere in the dark and Castiel grips on to it like a lifeline. He leans over to kiss Dean, takes his time with it too. And Dean melts against him, pliant and inviting and it gives Castiel the confidence he needs. He can do this.

Castiel moves between Dean’s legs, pulling up his hips until they’re angled right. He can’t see Dean’s face, but he’s sure that he’s found his eyes regardless. Lining up takes a lot of fumbling and slippery hands don’t really help, but when he finally has the right position to push in, it all becomes inconsequential. He’s there, he’s finally there.

Sliding into Dean is a feeling like nothing he’s ever encountered in his life. He’s so hot and Castiel swears he can feel him clench around him. Castiel’s heart beat is a steady rhythm drummed out against his ribs and his breath rivals Dean’s at this point. There are no words to describe the feeling of being _inside_ Dean.

Dean is tense underneath him, he can feel it. Castiel stops his forward movement, and suddenly he feels like there is way too little contact between them. He leans forward, careful not to make Dean uncomfortable and pulls him up and against his chest. Dean sucks in a sharp breath, fingers momentarily tense where they clutch around Castiel’s shoulders, but then he releases both his hold and his tension and sinks down with one swift motion.

The sensation punches a sound out of Castiel’s chest he didn’t think was possible. It’s a mixture of a moan and a scream, and he has to make an honest effort not to come right then and there.

“Are you alright?” He seeks out Dean’s face with his lips, brushing over his jaw and chin until he finds his lips and he can feel the curve of his smile against his own. Dean’s arms circle around him and for a moment they just hold each other, and just _breathe_.

“Dean,” Castiel says after a while, hands playing with the fine hair at Dean’s neck. “I will get you out of here.” A shift goes through Dean’s body, subtle but unmistakably for how closely they are wrapped around each other. “If it’s the last thing I do.” Castiel adds, and even though the thought is sudden, the sincerity is unquestionably.

“Cas.” Dean’s voice sounds lost, too quiet in the darkness. And Castiel doesn’t give him the chance to say anything more. He starts rocking his hips in a steady motion, drawing every word that might have come from Dean’s lips.

“This. Is. Not. Debatable.” Castiel accentuates every word with a thrust of his hips. Dean’s nails catch on the skin of his back and he will probably carry the marks for a while, but Castiel doesn’t care. He adjusts is hold on Dean, hands splaying over the zigzag of scars there. A moan falls from Dean’s lips, startled and a little breathless as his finger run over the hickeys he just recently left there.

Castiel drags his hands down Dean’s back to his hips, pushes his thumbs into the dip where leg meets body. An aborted moan falls from Dean’s mouth and he grasps at Castiel’s shoulders. His legs are shaking from the effort to keep himself up for Castiel to have room to move, and when Castiel pushes his hands under Dean’s behind to support him he sags down with a miniscule sigh of relief.

Dean isn’t exactly light, but after another shift of his hips, Castiel manages to support him well enough. He picks up the pace then, snapping his hips forward repeatedly until Dean is an incoherent mess above him. Castiel angels their head for a kiss. Dean’s mouth hangs open, low gasps and moans escaping him every now and then. Castiel licks his way inside Dean’s mouth, even discontinuing his thrusts for the few seconds it takes to kiss Dean breathless. 

And when he’s thoroughly sated, he snaps his hips forward rapidly, making Dean clench tightly around him. He’s moaning again, voice hoarse from the constant use and Castiel can tell that he’s close now. But there is still something missing. Dean’s erection is trapped in between their bodies, the tip dragging wet trails over Castiel’s belly, but the friction isn’t enough to grant him relief.

“Touch yourself, Dean.” Castiel orders. He can’t spare a hand himself, but apparently that was exactly what Dean needed to hear. It rips a moan from his lips and for a moment he just clutches tightly at Castiel’s shoulders. Another sharp twist of his hips and Dean is reminded of his task. He’s messy, needs two attempts to properly grip his cock and his tugs are quick and erratic. But it does the trick and after another few forceful thrusts Dean spills his seed in between them, Castiel’s name on his lips.

He falls against Castiel afterwards, all strength drained from his lips, lips mouthing softly at the skin on Castiel’s neck. And he allows them to fall back together, Dean coming to rest on his chest, breath still puffing out in huffs. Castiel doesn’t move, even though his erection still demands attention, but for the moment he can live with being simply sheathed inside of Dean.

“Thanks Cas.” Dean mumbles against his skin, nuzzling deeper in the crook of Castiel’s neck.

“For what?” Castiel asks, voice raspy and breathless, shaking with the effort to keep his hips still. Dean hesitates for a moment, his movement stilled, but then he pushes himself up to look down at Castiel. He seems to glow in the dark; Castiel can make out every little line on his face, every angle, and it’s the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. He reaches up to rest a hand on Dean’s cheek, rub a thumb over the skin under his eye, and he feels the irresistible pull of a smile on his lips.

Dean smiles back, eyes twinkling in that light that seems to come from within him. “For everything.” He says softly, and then he starts to move, slowly but steady, startling a surprised moan out of Castiel. Dean has pushed himself up into a sitting position now, gyrating his hips in quick circles, and Castiel is in shambles in mere seconds. “Come on Cas.” Dean growls low in his throat, and all it takes for Dean is to tweak one of his nipples and Castiel is done for.

Coming inside of Dean, filling him up with his seed, is on a whole new scale than just coming regularly. It’s as if Castiel’s mind is blown out. His hands grip on Dean’s hips, probably leaving a new set of bruises but he doesn’t care. Every bruise he leaves on Dean is another sign that he belongs to him.

Dean smirks at him during the whole of it, but Castiel is too satisfied to care much right now. Instead he pulls Dean down again, until he rests against Castiel’s side, face pressed into the crook of his neck.

They lie like this for a while, until Castiel decides that lack of fire also means lack of warmth and goes to refuel it. Castiel has stocked up the supply of firewood the day before, but still the pile of logs is meager at best.

Dean is lying back on his stomach, eyes closed and what appears to be napping, so Castiel takes a few moments to just look at him in the newly lit room. Dean looks tired, even now. There are dark circles under his eyes and a cover of sweat on his face. The cut on his forehead is nothing more  but a pronounced red line and Castiel thinks he can pull the sutures tomorrow.

The bandage on his chest is sweat soaked, but judging by how little Dean is hindered by it, he might not need a bandage anymore. Most bruises are healed, only a few yellow and green blotches remain, along with the new purple bruises Castiel has left there only recently. What he can’t see are the scars on Dean’s back, both the fine white lines on his lower back, and the crisscross pattern of poorly healed whip scars on his shoulders. But he knows they’re there.

The thought makes him angry.

“Come to bed Cas.” Dean mumbles, one arm flopping to the side and making a gesture that Castiel identifies as some half form of a wave and a wiggling index finger. It is probably supposed to invite him back to bed.

Castiel can’t help the smile on his face. It’s something about Dean that just invites smiles.

“We haven’t eaten yet.”

Dean groans. “Food is for the weak.”

“Oh, and cuddling is not?”

“Not when you do extreme cuddling.”

“Extreme cuddling? How is that supposed to work?”

“Come to bed and I’ll show you.”

Castiel stands up and goes to fetch his pants from where they dropped on the floor. “I wish to take advantage of the filled state of our supply closet. You need sustenance to get your strength back.”

Dean opens his mouth to say something, but Castiel shoots him a pointed look and he snaps his mouth shut.

“Bring beer.” Dean calls after him when Castiel leaves through the door, taking the bucket with him that Dean has to use as a makeshift toilet. (He should do something about that probably, maybe show him the bathroom he and the attendees use.)

The corridors are empty as expected, and Castiel has to stumble around in the dark until he’s found the flint stones that are stored in a small hole in the wall to ignite the first of the tallow lamps. Strangely though, as much as he is used to the dreary silence, it feels wrong and lonely for the first time. Rachel is staying at her parents’ house for the next few days, until the next delivery is expected. That means, weren’t it for Dean, he would be truly alone in the infirmary. A thought that never had bothered him, but now he wants to make haste to return to Dean.

He quickly empties the bucket and puts it outside the kitchen door as a reminder to take it back in time.

There’s no meat, as usual; they’ve already eaten the bit that came with the last delivery - special treat - but the bag of pearl barley gives him an idea. Dean needs more nutrients than bread and cheese meals can give him, especially considering the often poor quality of both. He plans to take advantage of the current high supply of fresh vegetables. A healthy vegetable soup - or rather a broth, will remedy that. He goes back to fetch Dean, urging him to pull on all his clothes (which used to be Castiel’s clothes, meaning they fit tight in all the right places, and Castiel is just the right side of decent to admire that), and adding a blanket as a makeshift coat, before he allows him out of his room.

Dean is excited, even though all there is to see are blank stone walls, a few wooden doors and some questionable dried puddles on the floor. Castiel’s spare pair of shoes is too small for him and he trudges awkwardly along Castiel, listening to the explanations he gives as to what is behind each door.

He files the need to get Dean new shoes and clothes in the back of his mind for later. They won’t get far, if Dean looks like a man who robbed the nearest laundry line.

“And that is the kitchen.” Castiel finishes his tour and proceeds to open the door to usher Dean inside. There’s usually always a fire burning in the kitchen, but since Rachel isn’t there and Castiel himself was too occupied it has burned down so they have to rekindle it now. Dean sits down on one of the chairs and watches as Castiel expertly revives the fire. The kitchen is also the only room which has a glow stone, but it’s light is barely enough to light the work area.

“You can cut up the celery stalk and the parsnip I laid out on the counter.” Castiel proposes once the fire is burning to his satisfaction. They really will have to do something about the amount of firewood they get weekly. They have enough for _this_ week, but it won’t last them for long when winter comes.

“No onions?”

“I will cut the onions.” Castiel says, earning him a warm smile from Dean.

“You know I’m supposed to point out that I am a man and can cut my own onions.”

“Oh you want to cut the onions?”

“No.”

“You can cut the carrots then.”

“Are you trying to transform me into a rabbit?” Dean asks with a raised eyebrow. He has put the cutting board on the table before him and sits down again to cut his share of vegetables. Castiel places a bowl next to him. He puts their largest saucepan on the flame and adds vegetable oil.

“Where do these go? The bowl?” Dean asks, pointing at the mass of celery dies piled up on his board.

“Yes, you can put all the vegetables in there once you’re finished.”

”So what are we making here?”

“Barley broth with vegetables.”

“Will there be meat?”

“Unfortunately no. You ate everything we had yesterday.” Which wasn’t really that much.

“Too expensive, huh?”

“And too valuable to waste on people like us.” Castiel says it with what he hopes is a tone of light joking, but by the look Dean gives him, he’s not buying it.

“People like us? Come on Cas, you don’t believe that, do you?”

Castiel halts his chopping movements and looks down at the perfectly diced onion on his plate. “No. But there is nothing I can do. Well, nothing more I can do, beyond what I already have done.”

Dean doesn’t pry further and they keep chopping up their vegetables in comfortable silence. Castiel eventually stands up to dump the sliced up onions into the saucepan, stirring everything with a wooden spatula. He throws in a few spices when Dean asks:

“So how are we going to do this?”

“Slow burn over an open fire I suppose.”

“I meant the escape. You’re the expert. I don’t even know how it looks outside the infirmary. I’m kind of running blind here.” Castiel halts in his stirring, but doesn’t look back to where Dean sits.

“I told you I’ll get you out of here.”

“Yeah, but how? Don’t get me wrong I’m grateful, but I want to know how you’re going to bust my ass out.”

“Chance is people outside don’t know how you look, so I’m going to dress you up as one of my attendees and walk out the front door.” That’s the gist of it, but Castiel still has to do a bit of fine tuning.

“Chance is? You’re betting my life on chance?”

Or maybe a lot.

“I’m not betting your life.” Castiel puts down the spatula to collect the rest of the vegetables and add them to the sizzling onions. “I’m aware of the flaws, but I promise you, once I’m done with you, you won’t be recognizable. No one will question your presence at my side. It’s the Mesmeralias, no one will question it if you’re wearing a mask.” Which means, he’ll have to get them both a mask first.

And he’ll have to find Rachel. He can’t do this alone.

“If you say so.” Dean says easily, leaning back in his chair. And Castiel is stricken for a moment by the severity of the situation. Dean _trusts_ him with his life. There’s a gravity to it that has Castiel reeling for a moment.

“Everything alright?” Dean asks.

“Yes, everything is fine.” Castiel replies with a smile. He takes an old wooden cup out f the cabinet and uses it to scoop out barley from the bag and adds it to the mix. His hands are shaking slightly, but it’s a rush of excitement that courses through him.

“You sure?” He hasn’t heard Dean moving, but he must have, because now he’s standing right behind Castiel, wrapping his arms around his waist and resting his chin on his shoulder.

“Yes Dean, I am sure.” Castiel tilts his head to rest it against Dean’s.

“Okay.”

“Dean.”

“Cas?”

“You’ll have to let me move or our lunch will burn.”

“Can’t I move with you?” Dean’s voice is a low and pleasant rumble in his ears.

“Dean, you are insufferable.”

“Is that a no?”

“…no.”

Granted, moving with a human shaped cape isn’t exactly easy, but Dean does his best to align his steps with his and they somehow manage to reach the section of the stone counter that is actually hollow and covered with a wooden cover. Inside is their water supply. It doesn’t look too clean, but both Castiel and Rachel go to great pains to make sure that it’s clean. And when in doubt, they always cook it before using. That’s also why they have two metal canisters next to the water storage that hold already cooked water.

“Is that the water I have been drinking?”

“Don’t worry, I made sure it’s clean.”

Castiel fills what he estimates to be enough water into their unofficial cooking bucket. It serves no other purpose then to transport water from the water hole to where they need it. Since Rachel threw a fit after too many dislocations of one of the canisters and no one feeling responsible for returning them to their rightful place.

“I’m sure making a habit of giving my life in your hands.” Dean’s tone is light, but there is the gravity again. And Castiel realizes that Dean knows it too. Before Castiel can say anything, Dean already continues, “I wouldn’t know a better place for it.”

Castiel is speechless for a moment, but a popping log in the fireplace reminds him of his task. And since Dean hasn’t let go of him yet, instead he has taken up nuzzling his nose very distractingly into Castiel’s neck, they awkwardly shuffle back to their simmering food.

After pouring in the water and another set of seasoning (from what little they have in stock), it’s another half an hour of waiting an lots of impromptu kissing, and maybe even a bit of making out against the kitchen counter, until the broth is finished.

Dean insists on helping him with clean up, but Castiel is adamant in sending him back into his room. He allows him however to take the bucket that’s still waiting outside the kitchen, with him. When he returns to Dean’s room he’s awaited by a surprise. Dean has pushed two of the cots together to form a bigger bed for them. He also piled all of the available blankets and pillows on top of it.

Castiel wonders why they didn’t think of that earlier.

They end the day in their new bed, hidden underneath what Dean calls ‘the most awesome pillow fort the world has ever seen’. Castiel has brought rations with him, foreseeing correctly that Dean won’t let him leave to fetch dinner, and so they snack on apples again. There’s bread and cheese too, and Castiel even dared to take one of the two oranges that had been generously given as ‘a sign of the Master’s generosity’. Never mind that they are small and probably from last year. To Castiel they taste just like heaven.

So do Dean’s lips afterwards as they roll around, pulling down the fort around them, until they are covered in a mountain of blankets.


	8. Chapter 8

Seven days left. Seven days until the end of the festivities, until the Games start again and until Dean’s life is supposed to end.

They have much to do.

Dean complains a lot, but Castiel is firm in his decision. They need provisions and what they have in the infirmary, is not nearly enough. Aside from food, there are other things they will need, clothes for Dean, a cover, something to hide his identity. And, as Dean so readily adds, proper lubrication.

It’s good to know they have their priorities in order.

Dean complains, but he concedes eventually. After Dean has made sure that he’s engraved his memory in Castiel’s body, has made sure that he can feel Dean long after he has walked out of the Stadium; feel him in every one of his muscles when he moves.

It’s the insistent ache in his body that has him smiling the whole way out of the infirmary and the rest of the large underground portion of the Stadium. It’s a giant complex, full of corridors that people could easily get lost in - as far as Castiel knows, a lot of them actually do.

The guards posted in front of the door that leads into the infirmary - which just so happens to be the only entrance - greet him with stoic impassiveness. There’s no love between the Stadium guards and the medical personnel, but they share a strained form of mutual respect. As in; stay out of each other’s hair and no one has to get hurt.

It’s always a shock to walk outside. Due to its underground localization, the Stadium is a perpetually cold place; even in the height of summer. The summer glow is at its peak, only a few more days left, before the weather stones cease their function for this year and autumn falls. It’s century old magic, a spell of endless summer, woven by the sorcerers of the old days, and their spell has not yet waned. The glow isn’t as hot as it used to be, but Castiel can only be glad for it. No one really remembers what the purpose of the spell was, but the people have since embraced the two-weeks celebration of the Mesmeralias, so no one asks too many questions. Even if that means that some days during the summer can get unbearably hot.

The first few steps are actually quite pleasant. The warm air is like a balm on his chilled skin, but that only lasts for about thirteen seconds. Soon Castiel is sweating.

The streets are full of people, the air heavy with the thick smell of flowers, strong enough to even drown out the stench that usually hangs over the city. There’s not an inch of ground that isn’t covered with flower petals, glitter or parts of the many streamers that hang from every available house front. There are stalls everywhere, selling flowers (who would have guessed), food, gifts, more food, alcohol, masks, costumes, knickknacks that have no real use aside from looking nice (or not) and a lot of other things of questionable use.

And almost everyone is dancing or cheering, and Castiel gets hugged randomly by at least ten people, half of them inebriated to a point they probably aren’t even aware that he’s a stranger. It’s a striking contrast to the rest of the year, where the people of the city (and by extension the rest of the country) are subdued and quiet, wallowing in their misery that is only eased by the Games.

And for two weeks per year they get to forget their poverty, their insignificance to their ruler. A lot of the celebrators wear masks, some ornamental and intricate, some simple, but all are colorful, adorned with feathers, or small beads of glass that twinkle like diamonds in the glowing sun. Some depict animals, others mythical beasts, a few are just abstract human faces. And with the masks come costumes, simpler than the masks, often stitched together from many different fabrics, and the more colorful for it.

Castiel tries to dodge as many huggers as possible. He’s not exactly sore - it’s more of a pleasant ache - but he wants to preserve the intimate feeling of Dean’s touch lingering on his skin for as long as possible. But then again, there wasn’t much of a chance of that to begin with, what with the rivulets of sweat that seem to pour down his body.

People offer him drinks and cheers, and the happiness flitting around him is almost contagious. But Castiel doesn’t quite feel the ease he usually feels during the festivities. It’s a time of being generous and charitable, but what he’s about to do now is nothing short of treason.

And if he fails, Dean might die.

He purchases two masks, one blue and one green, easily enough, but the rest will be more of a problem. Most shops are closed - their owners mingling with the crowd on the streets. But there are a choice few that valiantly resist the cheerful singing and the frolicking outside their doorsteps. The Master frowns upon everyone doing business during the Mesmeralias, but it’s a necessity, and thus nothing is done about it.

Castiel is met with idle disinterest when he enters the first shop selling clothes that is actually open. It’s not his first choice when it comes to both price and quality, but he doesn’t really have any other options. Not during this time of the year. The clothes are poorly woven, some with questionable stains Castiel doesn’t want to think too closely about. The threads are of rather poor quality and Castiel is starting to lose hope that he’ll find anything of use there.

The clerk clears his throat. A clear sign of his impatience with Castiel’s continued presence. A notion that is completely beyond Castiel, because he’s neither obtrusive nor does the clerk have anything else to do.

He finally settles on a pair of pants that don’t look too bad and two shirts that, albeit threadbare, are at least clear of stains. To that he adds a few pairs of the cleanest underwear he can find, and a pile of socks, wishing desperately for a chance to wash them before Dean has to wear them. The clerk gives him a dirty grin as he takes his money, and Castiel feels inexplicably sullied.

Castiel doesn’t have much money let; he already had to empty the small stash of money he’d hid away in the wall behind his bed, and he doesn’t have much doubt that there won’t be anything left once he has gotten everything.

Getting shoes is even harder than getting clothes, and when he finally finds a store that actually sells shoes, he has to invest a lot of time again, to find a pair that would fit Dean, meets their basic requirements _and_ is affordable. It’s a whole miracle in itself that he even finds a pair. Compared to that getting the lube for their shared activity is almost laughably easy.

Food is another thing on the list, and while there are more stalls selling food that he can count, none of them sell anything that wouldn’t grow bad on their third day. And while getting clothes during the Mesmeralias is hard, getting food outside of the festivities is close to impossible. All the vendors have installed stalls somewhere, selling sweets and fruits, pastries and small cakes, grilled meat on sticks, grilled meat not on sticks, a whole ox on a rotating spit, bread buns filled with creams and other things, roses frosted with sugar, small fried birds roasting over open fires, giant pots with soups cooking and bubbling idly over more open fireplaces, small pralines, nougats, toffees; not to mention a plethora of alcoholic drinks, kegs full of beer and mead, barrels of rum and wine, liquors and schnapps and a lot of other things Castiel doesn’t have a name for.

He’s definitely hungry now.

Castiel finally gets what he wants after bugging one of the vendors Rachel-style into selling him some of his regular stuff. He gets bread and cheese, dried fruits, a slab of ham and a bag of nuts. The bread is already hard and the ham is wrinkled up and tiny, but Dean has voiced his craving for meat more than once, and since the vendor wants it off his hands anyway, Castiel happily obliges.

But now it’s time to get the last puzzle piece for his plan; and that will undoubtedly be the hardest part of his shopping tour. He has to find Rachel.

Which ends up being the quite literal search for a needle in a haystack.

In the end it’s Rachel who finds him. He had asked around, asked ever person sober enough to be cognizant if he’d seen her and eventually someone had. Something like this wouldn’t be possible on any other day, but it’s the Mesmeralias and as soon as the crowd realized that someone was looking for someone, everyone did their best to help. People going out of their way to look for Rachel, to ask around on Castiel’s behalf; it’s heartwarming.

Yet it takes hours. Hours that Castiel spends anxiously waiting and searching, wondering with every passing second what Dean is doing, if he’s missing him already. And then Rachel shows up from seemingly nowhere, a crown of flower woven in her hair, cheeks rosy with laughter and wine. She’s beautiful like this, young and unburdened. And it tears at Castiel’s heart what he has to ask of her.

In the end she agrees to his plan, takes it with a smile and a hint of sadness in her eyes, but she agrees. There’s no logical reason why she would do it - it’s dangerous, but because of some overgrown sense of loyalty, she does. And Castiel doesn’t question her. He’s too thankful, too grateful. And he is awed, humbled almost, by the unquestioning unwavering devotion he sees in Rachel’s eyes.

Her smile is tight when they bid their goodbyes, but she leans in regardless, to peck a quick good look kiss on his cheek. There’s heaviness to her step, but she doesn’t waver as she walks away and vanishes in the crowd.

Castiel watches until he can no longer see her. His arms are heavy with the weight of the bags he carried for hours now, but there is still that pleasant tingle on his skin that reminds him of Dean’s touch earlier. At least he can go home now.

But not before buying two skewers with bits of rabbit dripping with sauce; a treat for Dean who had been craving meat for the last few days. It drains the last of his savings, but ironically it’s the cheapest of his purchases. He could have just taken it for free otherwise.

* * *

He needs a bath. Castiel usually cleans himself with a wet washcloth and soap root, but after one day outside in the glaring sun, wedged in between sweaty bodies and getting hugged more than he could care for; he definitely needs more than just superficial cleaning. He feels dirty. The thick scent of flowers masks most of it, but there is still the stench of the city underneath it all. It makes for a nauseating mix. Castiel wonders how the others can just ignore it like that.

It’s actually a relief to return inside the oppressing walls. It’s cool inside, and the air, while stale, is at least scent-free; mostly. Not to mention that it’s cool. Gloriously cool. Castiel is shivering after seconds, the sweat on his skin cooled off, but he relishes in it. It helps to cool the sunburn on his neck and ears.

The guards give him weird glances as he approaches with his bags and packets. Thankfully he has made it enough of a habit to come and go during the Mesmeralias, sometimes arms packed full with medical supplies and sometimes empty handed. A sight like this is nothing unusual. It’s also not unusual that neither of the guards try to help him while he wrestles with the door. It’s also customary that at least one of them laughs when he drops the packet with the shoes in an effort to save the meat skewers from the same fate.

It’s when he managed to assemble all his things in his arms once again and finally got a foot inside the door when one of the guards speaks up. “The Overseer came to check on your ‘special’ patient.”

Castiel freezes. The guards can’t see his face, and that is a good thing. His expression is stuck somewhere between abject horror and cold dread; and a dark heavy fear settles in is gut. He doesn’t know how he manages the impossible feat of turning around forcing a noncommittal expression on his face.

“When did he arrive?”

All he can do is cling on to the fact that he hasn’t been arrested yet. Whatever happened, it hasn’t reached the critical point - yet.

The guard that had spoken earlier shrugs. “About half an hour ago. He wanted to speak to you and since you haven’t been in, I figure he’s still waiting.” There’s a frown pinched on his brow, and the way he looks Castiel over suggests that he personally thinks it’s an inexcusable offense to let the Overseer wait. Which it is.

Dean would know the perfect word to surmise the current situation, but Castiel’s mind is stuck on an endless repeat of the word ‘no’. He barely takes the time to get his purchases inside, before he unceremoniously shoves them into the next room and locks the door to be safe. He’s close to panic, but he’s been in enough crisis situations to keep his head clear. And leaving the evidence of his soon to be betrayal right in front of the door would be downright stupid.

His mind is running. He hadn’t been left with specifications, but he’s pretty sure that lock picking Dean’s bonds and letting him roam freely - while the infirmary was empty no less - is likely to get him into serious trouble.

There’s a guard outside of Dean’s room. He doesn’t spare Castiel so much as a glance, but steps aside regardless. Castiel is aware of his dusty and quite pathetic sweaty state, but he doubts that he could make it any worse at this point. Besides, he can’t leave Dean alone with the Overseer for much longer; he has to do as much damage control as he can.

The Overseer sits on Castiel’s stool, back to the fireplace and a carefully crafted mask of indifference on his face. But the fact that stands out to Castiel, is that Dean is nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Dean?” He blurts out before thinking, but the worry nagging in his belly doesn’t allow him to stay calm.

The Overseer is a man with an impressive physical presence that easily overshadows his presence of mind. Castiel hasn’t talked much to him, but it has clearly become evident that he doesn’t care about much other than money and his next promotion. He’s older than Castiel, grey hair already receding, and self satisfaction dripping from every pore.  

Rachel calls him an inflated ball sack. Castiel has to agree.

“In the dungeons, where he belongs.”

Something very cold seems to drip down Castiel’s spine.

“What…?” He can’t form words; he can’t think straight. Everything is a mess in his head.

“I’ve been told of your… indiscretions.” Zachariah - the Overseer - declares with that pompous gravity he’s so fond of. “While I personally couldn’t care less about where you find your outlet,” he wrinkles his noise to show his disdain about Castiel’s choice, “I can’t risk you getting to close to your charge. You are a valuable asset Castiel.” This time the disdained frown is audible. “I can’t allow this mongrel to cloud your judgment.” 

Castiel slumps down on the bed, eyes wide with horror as he stares at Zachariah. He can’t even find the anger to be mad at Zechariah for calling Dean a mongrel. All he can do is stare.

“I’m doing this for your best interest, Castiel. The Master has expressed his pleasure with your continued services. I am merely making sure that it stays that way.”

“What have you done to Dean?”

“Nothing.” Zachariah’s voice is ice cold now, and the look he gives Castiel is more than enough threat to remind him to mind his tone. “I simply picked up the slack you’ve had with him. He is a prisoner Castiel. I can’t begin to imagine why you would even consider him. If it’s whores you want I could get you plenty.” There’s a sour expression around Zachariah’s mouth, as if the words were lemons he had to bite out.

“The Master has made it quite clear that he is fond of your work. He urged me to show you my full support. By all means Castiel, ask and you shall be given.”

“Release Dean back into my care.”

“No.”

Castiel glares at him.

“You realize what you’ve done so far could be very well considered treason. The Master thinks you’re merely infatuated.” If Zachariah frowns any more, it’ll get permanently stuck to his face, Castiel thinks offhandedly. It’s such an incongruous thought, but he clings to it. Because everything else would just get him into more trouble right now. And if he strikes out at Zachariah, it will be the end of both Dean and him.

“He is actually quite fond of the idea of you loosening up finally. But I know better.” Zachariah steeples his finger in his lap, another one of his well practiced gestures that is supposed to impress others. “I’m doing you a favor Castiel. The Master has for whatever inexplicable reason taken a liking to you, but he will not hesitate to execute you should you so much as try to take away his prize.”

Zachariah leans back, hands now resting on the one knee he has thrown over the other leg, a generous smile on his face that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You have guards posted outside.” Castiel says with barely contained rage. “Do you think your own people this incompetent that I would be able to just spirit Dean past them?” Castiel tries his hardest to think straight, to not let the rage wash away his rationality. The battle experience helps. But the urge to throttle Zachariah is still there. After letting them almost starve for months, he now dared to take Dean away from him.

“I’m not saying you would have made it.” He says coldly, all pretense of friendliness thrown out of the nonexistent window. “I had my eyes on you Castiel. Don’t take me for stupid. You’ve been holed up with that mongrel for days, and while I don’t know every detail of it, I only have to take one educated guess to figure it out. You would have tried; you would have failed; you would have died.”

“Now we’re never going to find out, do we?” Castiel snaps, all efforts for clear-headedness forgotten. He will not stand for any more insults thrown at Dean. Zachariah is stunned. “Dean is my patient in case you missed that. Now, there are certain treatments he still needs to get better _as to the Master’s wishes_. So either you return him to me right now or you will suffer the consequences. Have I mentioned that his sutures need to be pulled? That his ribs still aren’t healed and if left untreated will likely impair him to a point where his execution will be but a boring display of defenseless slaughter? Which might be the desired effect with some criminals, but as far as I remember the Master wants a show with this one.”

The words taste vile on his tongue, but Castiel spits them out regardless. “Last time I checked the dungeons were quite dirty. Do you know what sepsis can do to a man?” Castiel presses his fingers into the meat of his thighs, one last effort to keep him from lashing out.

There’s an ugly expression on Zachariah’s face, something between rage and disgust. Castiel is suddenly struck with the thought that this might very well be his true face.

“Fine.” He snaps. “I’ll bring him to you so you can treat him.” Zachariah is standing now. A last obvious attempt at gaining dominance, but Castiel refuses to rise to the bait and stand up himself. “But I’ll have guards watching your every move. You do your thing and then he’ll be back at the dungeon where he belongs.” Zachariah doesn’t wait for a reply, he simply turns around and storms out of the room.

It’s cold. Castiel realizes belatedly that the fire isn’t burning. The only light source is his one precious oil lamp. The bed he’s sitting on - Dean’s bed - is cold too. But the coldest spot in the room is right in Castiel’s chest.

* * *

Dean is in bad shape when they drag him in. He has been beaten, this much is obvious. But there is a cocky grin on his cheeks and he keeps cracking jokes at the two men flanking him. Not so many days ago Castiel would have been fooled by the attitude. Now however, he can see right through its threadbare cover, underneath of which Dean is barely able to hold it together.

There’s something cold and sharp lodged in his throat, and it only grows as he watches how the guards push Dean down on his knees. He’s dirty, there are clumps of dirt and blood in his hair and his face is covered in much of the same. He looks even worse than the first time he was brought.

Castiel hesitates for a moment. All he wants is to drop down to his knees and pull Dean into a hug. He wants to reassure himself that Dean is alright, wants to feel his heartbeat with his body. But the guards are still there, watching him with a dispassionate patience that belies their willingness to rat him out to Zachariah if he makes one false step.

He knows this feeling intimately. He was forced to endure it far too often during the past few years; the helplessness in the face of unavoidable death. It’s inherent of being a healer, but not every healer has to send his patients out to die day after day. It settles a weight in his chest, heavy and crippling. It takes more energy than it should just to move to get his bag where he stored his equipment for the time he had crashed in Dean’s room.

Dean is swaying, the bravado from earlier is all but forgotten now and Castiel has to rush to his side to actually catch him. The guards don’t even budge an inch from their position at his sides, watching with the same indifference as Castiel carefully lowers him to rest his back against the bed frame. Dean’s arms are pulled behind his back and manacled again, and he slightly winces when his own weight pushes against his arms.

Castiel feels tired all of a sudden. It almost physically hurts to see Dean like this but right now the inevitability of it all just seems to suffocate him. Dean is feverish and it doesn’t take a genius to guess that he’s caught an infection, and that just means that he might not even make it until the end of the week.

It’s moments like this when Castiel can feel his resolve waver. He thought he had gotten used to the inevitability, but then again, it had never been this personal. It’s hard to take in a blow like this, but Castiel doesn’t want to give up just yet. Dean is still alive, and where life is, there is hope.

Dean groans, and it takes Castiel a moment to realize that he’s trying to speak. Castiel doesn’t bother to check with the guards before he leans in to catch what Dean is saying.

“Cas.” Dean’s eyes are unfocused and somehow Castiel knows that he is talking to another Castiel, maybe the one in his dreams. Castiel leans closer, the guards behind him temporarily forgotten. “Cas, your eyes…” There’s something on Dean’s lips that could almost be a smile. It’s delirious and weak, but it tugs at something deep inside of Castiel, something he thought he had lost a long time ago.

“I love… your eyes.” Dean breathes. There’s a soft clunk, as if Dean just tried to lift his arm to reach up for Castiel’s face. It’s such an incongruous thing to say, but at the same time it’s so very Dean. There’s that smile again, weak, barely more than a soft tilt of lips, but it’s brilliant all the same.

There’s a reason why he became a doctor. And there’s a reason why he decided to try and save Dean.

Someone clears their throat and with that Castiel is back in reality. He looks up at the guard, putting all the contempt and disgust he feels for them into it and watches with satisfaction as the guard looks away with a frown. He’s a doctor, and he has weathered more than one battlefield. He won’t let these two assholes stop him.

“Make yourselves useful and get me water and a towel.” He snaps, laying every bit of authority he can muster into his voice. One of the guards opens his mouth, probably to protest, but Castiel beats him to it. “Do you want to waste any more time?” He doesn’t have to throw Zachariah’s name in to get him going. The other remains, doubtless to keep an eye out, but it’s still better than nothing.

He manages to lift Dean on top of the bed with some effort, and a lot of complaining grunts from Dean, but he’d rather break his back than let the anyone else touch Dean - not when he can help it. Dean is forced to lie awkwardly on his side due to the handcuffs, but the bed is at least soft. It doesn’t look comfortable, but there’s nothing Castiel can do. All he can do is try to make it as comfortable as possible and not let the thought of Dean having to leave soon distract him. Zachariah has made it clear that Castiel will only get the time to treat Dean before he’ll be taken away again.

It’s a painful thought, but Castiel swallows everything down that isn’t medical care right now. The guard has returned in the meantime, and Castiel waits until the water is boiling before he starts to treat Dean.

Cleaning Dean the second time is worse than it had been the first time. Each swipe with the wet towel reveals another bruise, another abrasion, another proof of abuse. At least he doesn’t have another cut that needs stitching, and his ribs have survived the beating in comparably god shape. But that doesn’t make the sight any easier.

Dean wakes up from his delirium while Castiel pulls his stitches, his eyes are still glazed over but he actually focuses on Castiel this time. “Hey Cas.” He says weakly. Castiel shushes him with a gentle finger on his lip.

“Don’t speak, you need your strength.” Castiel is tempted to lean down and kiss Dean, but he’s acutely aware that they’re not alone. Dean glances past him to where the guards stand next to the door. He smiles wryly, but then his expression shifts back into the smirk Castiel knows so well.

“Mind giving us some privacy?” He calls out, winking at the guards in a way that can only be described as suggestive. Castiel wishes for a short desperate moment that they’ll relent and leave them alone, but of course, all Dean gets in reply, is a disdained frown. “Oh come on, no last wish for the dying man?”

The statement is meant as a joke, Castiel knows that, but it still hurts. Because no matter how much lightness Dean puts in his tone, they both know that there is an indisputable truth behind the words.

It gets them another frown and a snort and Dean slightly grimaces. “Thought so. Sorry about that Cas.” It’s strange. Part of Castiel wants to mourn their lack of privacy, but the other just feels so elevated all of a sudden. Seeing Dean like this, as faked as his façade might be, gives him the strength to believe that they’ll find a way out of this.

That’s all he needs really. Faith.

And somehow he feels like his faith has no better place to rest than in Dean.

That newfound faith is tested what feels like moments later, but in truth must have been at least half an hour that passed. There’s only so much treatment he can fake before he runs out of things to check over. Castiel savors every second he’s granted, just touching Dean, even if it’s under pretense of checking and treating injuries.

He gave Dean a brew against his fever, but that alone won’t do. He’ll need to more than just one tea to get rid of the infection, but the guards outright refuse to let him deliver the brews. In the end Castiel has to put his foot down again and threaten them with the consequences until they agree on a compromise. Castiel provides the tea, one of the guards will deliver it.

Dean looks exhausted and the various new bruises have only now gained their full ugly range of coloring. It goes against every one of Castiel’s instincts to let him go. He made it very clear that Dean was to be left alone and treated to regular food and drink, but Castiel is in no part delusional that they’ll listen to him. And that makes letting Dean go all the more hard.

That night he can’t sleep, and it’s only partly because his mind is reeling with the effort to conjure a new plan. But mostly it’s because he misses Dean’s warmth next to him.


	9. Chapter 9

Rachel comes in the next day, two of their attendees in tow, and yet unaware of the fact that their plan has been foiled. Rachel had somehow managed to forge a missive from the Master that would send the guards in front of the infirmary away. The two attendees - Inias and Hester - would help disguise Dean's identity, and before anyone had noticed what was going on, they would be gone.

But things seldom go as planned.

The attendees are disgruntled at their forced departure from enjoying the festivities with their families, but after Rachel gets a hold of the situation she shoos them out again, with the constraint to return for the night. Slightly less disgruntled, now that they're able to rejoin the local festivities, the attendees leave, and Rachel drags Castiel into her room for a well-needed talk.

Castiel hasn't slept all night, therefore he's tired and not exactly at the height of his mental capacities. He's been trying to figure out just how Zachariah had spied on him, and he can't help the nagging fear that it might have been Rachel. She was the only on here for the time Dean had been in his care, and she hadn't been too happy about their closeness.

There must be a perfectly logical explanation for it though. Castiel doesn't want to believe that Rachel could betray him, but his mind is tired and exhausted and he can't think of anything that makes sense at the moment.

"What happened?" Rachel asks the moment the door closed behind her. Now that Dean is no longer in their custody, the guards have disappeared from in front of the infirmary, but apparently Rachel doesn't trust the peace.

"Zachariah has decided that Dean and I were getting too close, so he relocated him to the dungeon." Castiel is aware that he sounds a bit terse, but the tiredness along with his suspicions doesn't exactly work in his favor right now. Rachel doesn't let on if she's bothered by his tone.

"That is unfortunate." She comments, and there's no hint of judgment in her voice. If anything, Castiel had expected an 'I told you so'. But then again that had never been Rachel's style.

"Yes." Castiel says bitterly. "Someone must have told him." Maybe it's the exhaustion, but Castiel has no energy left to be subtle. Rachel's eyes widen minutely, and for a moment she seems simply surprised. But she's smart, and it doesn't take long for her to catch on to Castiel's thoughts. He didn't try to hide them after all.

Instead of getting angry though, Rachel lets out a deep longsuffering sigh. "Castiel, do you really think I would betray you to Zachariah of all people?" She pushes off from the wall she had been leaning against and takes a step closer. Castiel is suddenly reminded of how he had seen her yesterday, with flushed skin and stray flower petals in her hair. It's such a stark difference, it's startling.

"No." He allows with a sigh and averts his gaze.

"I might not condone your decision, but I would never betray you." Rachel states flatly. "You should know that." And she's right. Hers is an ungrateful job, even more so than his', and he just can't believe that she would do it, if she didn't believe in him.

No, Rachel has been nothing but loyal to him, almost to a fault. And he shouldn't disregard her efforts by distrusting her; she deserves more than that. Without her, he would have been lost a long time ago.

"Of course. I am sorry." Rachel dismisses the issue with a shrug, apparently not too perturbed by Castiel's accusation. She leans back against the wall, arms crossed in front of her chest and a thoughtful expression on her face.

"You're right though. Someone ratted you out."

Castiel sits down on the only chair in the room, a rickety thing close to collapsing. He's so damn tired, it's not just the lack of sleep; the whole situation weighs down on him. Rachel's expression softens and she smiles down at him.

"How about you get some rest, while I check on the situation?" Castiel considers it, he really does, but as tempting as a bit of rest sounds, he can't. Dean needs him, and he won't rest until he has found a way to get him out.

"No." Castiel stands up again. "We need to find our leak. We can't risk any exposure of our plan. How much have you told Inias and Hester?"

"Nothing." Rachel is frowning again, thoughtful. "I told them we needed them and that was it. Besides, I am sure it was neither of them. They're good people and they wouldn't betray you - especially not to Zachariah." Rachel shakes her head. "No, it must be someone else."

"Or something else." Castiel supplies drearily. Rachel blinks in surprise. Castiel hadn't really meant anything by it, but his brain-to-mouth filter isn't exactly working right now and the thought had struck him out of nowhere. But there's something peculiar about it that makes him pause.

"What do you mean?"

"We were stationed with one of the recon corps for a time during the last war." Castiel recalls, frowning as he tries to conjure the memories. "They used these communicator stones to rely messages, but they were frequently used to gather intelligence from enemy positions."

Castiel doesn't like the memory, they were far too involved in the machinations of war, on Naomi's orders, but that didn't mean Castiel had liked it.

He is a doctor, not a soldier. Only the lines had gotten far too blurred under Naomi's rule.

"They were placed strategically and could be activated with their counterpart over a distance."

"How does it look? Like a pebble, a boulder, a rock?" Rachel looks around in her room, but Castiel can already tell there is nothing in here.

"Like a small perfectly round pebble." Castiel says, and there are two of them. One perfectly round stone, innocent looking, embedded into the metal of each of the manacles Dean wore when he came here. Inconspicuous and perfect to spy on their conversation. Only Castiel had seen them before, but he hadn't taken any notice of it.

He tells Rachel as much, and the look of contempt on her face is almost rewarding.

"They weren't joking when they said the Master had a special interest in Dean."

"No." Castiel could kick himself. He had noticed the stones, but not thought anything of them. This wouldn't have happened if he had only thought a little longer about why they looked so familiar.

"But how did they do it? They can't just activate them at random and hope to catch something." Rachel runs another hand through her hair, a clear sign of her distress. The young happy woman from yesterday seems to be gone completely, as if it had only been a brief euphoria-induced fever dream of Castiel's.

"No." Castiel says slowly, thinking back to that moment when Balthazar bugged one of the soldiers to explain it to him. Castiel had been only half listening back then, more interested in checking his medical equipment. Now he wishes he had paid more attention.

"They come always in pairs and they work both ways, as far as I remember. But with limited transmitting capacity. They'll have to be rest for a while before they can be used again." Castiel frowns, tries to summon the moment, his annoyance at Balthazar's flippant disregard of his duty - choosing to chat instead of checking his equipment. "I can't remember how to activate them though. They transmit to their partner stones in real time, so Zachariah must have had them close."

"Smart." Rachel sounds impressed, and Castiel can't really blame her. It _is_ ingenious.

"Any idea what the activation process could be?"

Castiel only shrugs. His guess is as good as any. "The real question is, have both stones been activated?"

"What difference does it make? We know now, and from here on out we won't discuss anything of importance in that room."

"Right. But to be sure, we should search the whole place. Zachariah might have dropped off new ones."

"What do we do with the old ones?" The guards hadn't taken the cuffs with them when they had come to take Dean, strange, but that might just work in their favor.

"Leave them, we might still have a use for them." There's a glint in Rachel's eyes that tells him that she's following his train of thoughts. He's suddenly very glad that he didn't tell her of his plan while they were inside the infirmary.

"I'll go see what they look like and then search the rest of the rooms. You go and get some rest Castiel." This time Castiel doesn't argue.

* * *

Castiel intended to only nap for a few hours, but when he wakes up, it's way later than he expected. But maybe that is a good thing. He feels rested and much better than he had this morning, but his physical wellbeing doesn't exactly help against the nagging worry in his stomach.

He finds Rachel in the common room. The table has been turned over and the chairs are stacked on top of each other at one wall. Rachel sits cross legged on the ground, an empty cup next to her and quite obviously asleep. Castiel had checked his own room for communicators before he went to take a nap, but he hadn't been quite as thorough. Maybe he should give it another go.

The position doesn't look exactly comfortable and there's a deep frown on Rachel's face. She groans something and slumps forward, head hanging low before she suddenly jerks awake. She blinks blearily up at Castiel, obviously confused as to where she is.

"Good evening Rachel." Castiel greets solemnly.

Rachel closes her eyes and groans again. "Sorry about that." She pushes herself up, wincing slightly as her muscles protest the movement. "This was the last room and I just wanted to take a quick break."

Castiel shakes his head, smiling fondly. "Don't apologize Rachel. You've done me a great favor."

Rachel bends down to pick up the cup. When she looks up at Castiel again she's smiling, tired but still. There's a warmth in her expression, fondness almost. "You're my friend Castiel," is all she says before she presses the cup in Castiel's hand.

"Give me a minute then we'll talk. She calls from the corridor as she makes her way to her room.

Castiel looks down at the cup. It's the cup he used to feed Dean his medicine and a careful whiff reveals that it had been indeed Dean's fever brew. Rachel must have brewed it then and made sure he got it. Her words ring in his mind. _You are my friend_. Castiel feels inexplicably warm all of a sudden.

He busies himself with cleaning the cup in the, thankfully ordered kitchen, and afterwards rearranging the furniture in the common room. Rachel returns shortly after, looking slightly more awake and a lot more enthusiastic.

"I cleared every room, except yours and so far I haven't found another of those stones. I checked on Dean and brought him his medicine. He's fine so far, but I wouldn't count on that for long. Zachariah has taken personal offense after Dean repeatedly refused to be subdued."

Rachel doesn't say anymore, but the message is clear. They're running out of time. Zachariah loves his order and if anything, or anyone messes with it, he can get quite ugly. And there's no doubt that Dean must be grating on his very nerves.

"I wasn't allowed much time with him, but I tried to talk some sense into him." Rachel shrugs. "I doubt it will do much good."

Castiel has brought water and two cups from the kitchen. He fills the cups and hands one to Rachel who takes it with a grateful nod.

"We need to make our move." Castiel says after taking a sip. The water is old, a bit stale, but that's the standard down here. Still it's refreshing. "We won't be able to smuggle Dean past the guards in disguise as original planned though. We need another plan."

"You won't be allowed access to Dean's cell." Rachel has emptied her cup and refills it with the can Castiel brought. "They'll let me in when I bring his medicine, but I won't be alone with him."

"How many guards?"

"Too many. Castiel, whatever we do, we can't just walk into his cell and break him out." Rachel sighs.

"I know." Castiel leans back in his chair. He feels exhausted again. There are a million ideas flitting through his head, diversions, elaborate ruses, simple violence, sneaky plans, but all seem lacking. The dungeons are better guarded than the rest of the Stadium, and Dean has gotten an extra pair of guards stationed in front of his door.

They need - Castiel doesn't even know what they need. An army maybe. He wishes he could just walk down there, smite all the guards and save Dean. It's always so easy in the stories. The hero and his friends uncover some magical artifact or free an ancient beast that helps them on their quest. And while they face many obstacles, in the end they always succeed.

But this is not a story.

And Castiel has no friends, no artifacts to help him, just Rachel whom he should have never gotten into this mess.

"We need help." He concludes. Rachel snorts.

"The question is who would help us?"

There's something tugging at the back of Castiel's mind, an idea that keeps resisting his grasp whenever he tries to get a hold. So he ignores it for the time being, until it is ready to be examined. "We don't need willing help." He says slowly.

"All we need is a diversion."

Rachel frowns. Raises her eyebrows. Frowns again. Then her face smoothes over with understanding. "Oh."

In hindsight it's all rather simple. They have a whole mass of people outside and while they are in a constant state of euphoria, Castiel has enough experience with crowds to know that something like that can easily change. Crowd emotions are a whimsical thing, with the right incentive it can go from peaceful and calm to volatile violence in seconds.

"It's risky." Castiel allows and Rachel snorts again.

"I doubt at this point there's anything we can do that isn't risky." Rachel drags her finger along the rim of her cup. She's been fiddling with the cup for a while now, and Castiel knows her well enough to recognize that she's thinking hard. The room is cold and only lit by two tallow lamps. Their flames are unsteady and there's a lot of smoke and soot in the air. Castiel idly wonders if they should get coal pans as an alternate form of heating and lighting.

The unstable flicker of light masks the tiredness on Rachel's face, but Castiel doesn't need to see the lines to know she's exhausted.

"You don't have to do this." Castiel says softly, mirroring Rachel in tracing the rim of his cup. She has no reason to help him; especially not when it could put her in danger. She just smiles in reply. "I have worked here almost as long as you have." She stops the fiddling and flattens her hands on the table. Her eyes are solemn when she looks at Castiel.

"You don't know this, but I was a reserve medic in the last war. I've seen my fair share of horrors and coming here wasn't exactly a lift up." She smiles wryly. "I know that you're trying to do the right thing. I don't know Dean or what he did to land him here, but I know you Castiel. And I know that this," She makes a circular motion with her hand on the table, indicating the Stadium and the ideology behind it, "is wrong."

Castiel inclines his head. Rachel shrugs, no longer smiling but her eyes are sincere. "I trust you Castiel."

Castiel looks down at his hands, framed around his cup. "Thank you Rachel."

They spend the next hour with planning and fine tuning their plan, and while it's still risky and far from perfect, Castiel feels confident that it's their best shot. Hester and Inias return shortly before sunset and they carry bags full of food from the celebrations. They have dinner together then, all gathered around the too small table, but it's nice and companionable.

Rachel keys them in on what is supposed to happen tomorrow, withholding crucial details though. All she says is that they're having an impromptu celebration tomorrow in the Stadium, by decree of Zachariah who wants to prove his generosity. It's clear from the looks they exchange that they're not completely buying it, but Castiel can't really blame them. It _is_ a lame excuse.

But Inias agrees to help them, smiling at Castiel in a way that almost seems conspiratorial. It's like he knows exactly what Castiel is up to, but strangely, that only seems to motivate him. Hester however, isn't nearly as excited, but she begrudgingly accepts regardless.

Rachel gives him a worried glance though, and Castiel thinks he might have to keep an eye out on her.

"Is that why you dragged us back?" Inias asks once dinner is finished and the plan is laid out. Hester hasn't said anything in a while, but at least she has stopped glaring.

"Pretty much. It was short notice, even for us." Rachel shrugs and Castiel can't help but admire the ease with which she lies.

"Where's all the food and the decoration?" Hester asks, voice clipped. "I didn't see anything on our way here." Castiel exchanges a glance with Rachel, both slightly worried. They hadn't exactly thought this through; it was a spur of the moment decision in an attempt to cloak their true intents.

But surprisingly enough, it's Inias who comes up with an answer. "Why need any decorations when you're allowed to step on the white Marble?" Inias says with a smile that can only be described as benevolent. "It is an honor. There is no need for food or drink."

Hester stares at him, but Inias doesn't give anything away so she just nods in acceptance.

"I don't think this was a planned decision." Rachel supplies with a dismissive shrug. "So we'll have to improvise."

Hester leaves shortly after, muttering something about being tired and needing her strength. Rachel volunteers to do the dishes - what little they have amassed - and Inias offers to help Castiel with disposing of the trash. Castiel spares a remorseful thought for the meat kebobs he brought for Dean and had to dispose after Dean had been locked away. He decides to get him some festival meat tomorrow after their hopefully successful escape. The celebrations should give them enough cover for the time being, until they can figure out their next step together.

"Is he worth it?" Inias asks on their way back to the infirmary. There's a large cave with an underground river under parts of the Stadium. All their trash gets dumper through holes in the structure to land in the cave and subsequently the river. It's about the worst form of disposal Castiel can think off, but Zachariah - and the Overseer before him - endorsed it. And it's not that they have any good alternative other than dumping their trash onto the already dirty streets.

It just speaks for their country that no one really cares.

"Who is?" Castiel asks carefully. He can feel Inias' eyes on him, but he doesn't turn his head to meet his gaze.

"There is no celebration right? You just need a distraction to free him." Castiel tenses, minutely but it's enough to give Inias the answer he needs. "I'm not judging Castiel." Inias says softly. "I've listened in on the guards before I came here. And I've seen the way you look when you think of him. At least I think you think of him." There's a warmth in Inias' voice, like he's remembering something nice.

Somehow Castiel finds himself unable to lie to Inias. "He's worth much more." Castiel smiles, something he seems to do a lot lately. There's not much reason to smile at the moment, but just thinking of Dean makes his heart lighter.

"That's all I need to know." Inias returns his smile, eyes soft and warm. "I'll help you Castiel." The sentiment leaves Castiel nearly staggering. To think that he rarely invested the time to talk to his attendees. He feels guilty for neglecting his duties on that end. Inias would have deserved his attention.

"Thank you." Castiel says softly. He also seems to do that a lot lately.

* * *

Rachel comes visiting him in his room shortly after he retreated there to discuss some more specifics. Castiel hasn't changed for the night yet; he's sitting on his bed, leaning against the cold wall and contemplating if he should get a fire going. It's a waste of firewood, but even though that really shouldn't matter anymore at this point, Castiel can't quite get the motivation to get up for it.

"So we get the people inside and then what? Lay a fire to make them panic?" Rachel leans against the wall, ignoring the rickety stool that Castiel uses as a bedside table. The boxes and packages with Dean's new clothes and shoes in them lean against the wall, the bags with the food next to them. He'll have to move them before their gig tomorrow, and it's just another thing on his ever-growing list, along with packing his medical equipment.

"No fire. I want no casualties." Castiel leans his head back against the wall. It's cold, but he needs that right now or else he'll probably doze off in seconds.

"Smoke?"

"That could work, but still someone could get hurt in the panic."

Rachel doesn't reply but she doesn't have to. Their whole plan hinges on panic and it would be delusional to think that no one will get hurt.

"What about the dungeon guards?" Rachel pushes herself up and turns to the door, but she pauses before opening it.

Castiel stares at the guttering flame of the tallow lamp, recalling the moment that blasted his life apart. He was never a soldier but he received combat training, enough to defend himself if necessary. He never liked it - he's a healer, not a soldier, but he has also seen the state Dean was in when he was brought in yesterday. He feels no sympathy for the guards.

"Leave them to me."


	10. Chapter 10

It feels like Castiel is back at war. The quiet tension in the air, the endless waiting while others take the brunt of the fight. Inias and Hester went out to spread word of the ‘surprise celebration’ in the halls of the Stadium, throwing in just enough hints that they might get to walk on the white Marble.

Rachel is on her way down to the dungeons to bring Dean his medicine - along with Castiel’s favorite needle that’ll allow him to pick the locks of his cuffs. She’ll also try and drop some hints to get him up on par, but only if she can get them in without raising suspicion.

She’ll stay and distract the guards from the ruckus that’s to ensue upstairs, until it’s time for Castiel to make his move. Until then it all rests on the other’s shoulders. Castiel didn’t sleep well that night, but that doesn’t exactly come as a surprise. He spent the early morning hours preparing, moving things he’ll need to convenient positions and moving the things he won’t need out of the way. Not that there was much to move to begin with.

Somehow it feels like goodbye. He’ll never be able to return here after this day. And neither will the others. But their place here would be forfeit here anyway, with him gone. Hester and Inias wear masks to conceal their identities and both are crafty enough to find something new after this is over. And Rachel has made it abundantly clear that she’s behind him, even if that means a life on the run.

Castiel is waiting in the common room, a bag with clothes (both of theirs), a satchel with their food and a smaller satchel with his medical equipment leaning against the wall. He wishes he could take his books with him, but they would just weigh them down. Books re a luxury, and they have no use for luxury once they are on the run. He tries to listen for any sounds, but he’s too far underground to hear anything from above. There’s no way of telling what’s going on; they could have been compromised or everything could be going according to plan, but Castiel can only sit here and hope.

Dean’s discarded handcuffs lie on the table. The two stones embedded in the metal look innocently enough but Castiel can’t help but throw them a contemptuous glance every now and then. He had spent the better part of the night brooding over what could have been the activation. He must have seen the process a few times - Naomi liked to gather them around the commanding officers - but he couldn’t remember for the longest time.

In the end it had been - yet again - simple. He had been on the brink of sleep, mind drifting off, when the memory hit him. It was the damnedest thing, Dean teasing him, threatening to chain him up and in the process he had knocked the manacles against each other - knocking one of the stones against the metal of the other cuff in the process. Simple really. But it served to activate the stone and transmit their conversation afterwards.

Their conversation was comparably innocuous, but Zachariah had gleaned enough to determine the danger. Castiel stands up to check the door again, but there has been no change. He turns back to the table, where the cuffs still lie.

Rachel had come up with the idea after Castiel told her he’d figured it out. He doesn’t know which one of the stones had been activated so they’ll need to try out both.

There’s a sound outside and then the door flings open. “It’s time.” Inias calls, and is off again, just like that.

Castiel grabs the bag and slings it over his shoulder. The satchels land on his other shoulder; he grabs the cuffs last and makes his way out the door. The corridor outside the infirmary leads up some time before it ends at a staircase. Castiel can hear voices coming from upstairs - faint but very much there. He makes his way upstairs up into the next floor where the servants quarters are - now mostly empty due to the festivities. The dungeons are only accessible through this floor, another staircase leading down past the infirmary level and into the lowest area. Castiel dumps his load into an unused room, before he settles to wait against the wall next to the stairs.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Rachel comes running down the corridor, face flushed with the effort, Inias shortly behind her.

“How many?” Castiel asks.

“Enough.” Inias is panting heavily as he tries to get his breath under control. “They are on the lower second floor and Hester is shepherding them lower even. What next?”

“Panic.” Rachel takes the cuffs from Castiel and motions for Inias to come over. “We’ll use these to draw some attention.” She gestures to the cuffs in her hands. “Get Zachariah all worked up until he’ll send down men and add to the confusion.” Inias has a distinct look of panic on his face, but he nods regardless. “The fever broke during the night, so you’ll be fine. Dean is expecting you. Let’s go,” Rachel says softer now. “We need to blow up some smoke.”

She turns around to leave but Castiel holds her back with a hand on her arm. “Good luck Rachel.” He says with sincerity. They hold eyes for a moment and then Rachel smiles.

“You too Castiel.” Her smile fades. “Ten minutes. Let’s go.”

Castiel watches as they leave, feeling a strange sense of melancholy. It feels wrong to send them into the fray while he’s still safe. This isn’t there battle, yet they fight for him. The gods are distant and Castiel has never much believed in their benevolence, but he still finds himself praying to them now; praying for his friends’ safety as much as for Dean’s.

Strangely enough it seems to ease his mind just a little.

Time seems to pass slower for some reason. Or maybe it’s just the tension. Castiel counts the minutes until the time Rachel allotted is over. The sounds from above have changed slightly, the voices have been replaced with what seems to be screams. Part of him feels bad for the people up there, trapped in the labyrinth-like corridors with smoke clouding their vision. Some will get hurt inevitably; it’s the way of things. He’ll just have to make sure that their plan succeeds.

Silence falls once more when Castiel descends the staircase. The sound doesn’t quite reach this low. Castiel walks down past the infirmary level, and down into the lowest part yet. He pauses at the base of the stairs to take out the long gleaming silver knife - a remnant of his soldier days. He hasn’t used it in a long while, but the cool metal in his hands feels instantly familiar.

There’s a short stretch of corridor ahead that leads to a big iron door, flanked by two guards. Behind that lay the dungeons. The guards haven’t spotted him yet, but they aren’t that attentive. Castiel knows that there is another pair of guards inside the iron door and those will be significantly more alert. There’s not exactly a high chance of someone attacking the dungeon from the outside.

Castiel slides the blade up his sleeve to conceal it before he steps out into the flitting light of the tallow lamps. The men perk up at his sight, but neither attempts to lift his weapon - short blades to compensate for the narrow space.

“What do you want?” One of them snarls.

“I need to see one of your prisoners.” Castiel doesn’t stop walking until he’s right in front of him. 

“You have no business here.” The other one says and steps closer to block his access to the door. Both have their hands on their blades now, but they haven’t drawn yet. Which ends up being a crucial mistake. Castiel takes the first one by surprise, knocking the hilt of the blade against his head; the second has enough time to draw his sword but he’s in an unfavorable position. Castiel slams his fist against the man’s windpipe, strong enough to knock him out without doing too much damage.

He’s been through combat training - self defense - but this is different. He’s not fighting to defend himself; he’s fighting to attack. And while he tries to leave them alive, he still feels bad. There are only a few trained fighters among the guards, those who have to look after the prisoners who pose a threat - like Dean. The others are common people, most of them poor and hoping to earn some decent money. They get rudiment training in discipline and which side of a blade is the right side to hold, but that’s about it.

Many of them are cruel and abuse of the prisoners is common, but they are no match for Castiel’s skills, as rusty as they are. And he can’t help but feel bad about that.

Both guards carry a key to the iron door, but no further keys for any of the prison cells, but Castiel is positive that he’ll get those from the guards indoors. And that will be the tricky part now. He pulls the two unconscious men to the side, where they will be out of sight from the other side of the door.

The door is heavy and screeches loudly in its hinges. The sound is grating and alarmingly loud in the dim silence of the corridors. Castiel uses the door as cover as he slowly pulls it open, thanking whoever constructed it, for making it face outwards. He spares a furtive glance inside and thankfully the corridor behind is empty, save for the two men right in front of the door who are now staring at the door with suspicious frowns.

They are more disciplined than the two outside; both have their hands on their swords as they carefully gaze outside. “Rick?” One calls tentatively, and when they don’t get any reply the exchange a quick glance and both pull their swords. Castiel can tell from their stance and the way they hold their blades that they have more experience. He tightens his grip on his sword and waits for the right moment to strike.

Again, it’s the first guard he takes out with relative ease. He uses the moment of surprise when they lay eyes on the motionless bodies on the floor to smash the hilt of his blade against his head and he drops like a sack of potatoes. The other won’t go down as easily however.

He’s used the time it took Castiel to knock his colleague out to get himself into a defense position, arms raised and sword at the ready. He’s seizing up Castiel, face pinched in a snarl, but his stance is steady and it’s obvious that he knows what he’s doing.

There is not enough space to move properly, the ground made treacherous by the knocked out bodies, but neither is willing to give up ground by retreating. The only way is forward. Castiel moves first, the blade slippery with sweat. He doesn’t have much time, there could be someone coming at any moment and there’s no way Castiel can take out two prepared guards.

He feigns a blow, but the other doesn’t fall for it and Castiel has to transform his attack strike into a defense to block the guard’s downwards slash. He doesn’t get to retaliate, because in the next moment the guard slashes again and Castiel has to leap back a step. His foot catches on one of the bodies and he almost falls over, which fortunately puts him out of the way of his opponent’s next attack, but it also brings him to a few feet of distance between them.

This takes way too long and the guard is much better with the sword than Castiel has expected. This has to end now or Castiel loses his only chance at saving Dean. The guard stays clear of the bodies, crouched low in a position that leaves little space for attack. He’s waiting for Castiel to make the next move, saving his strength.

Castiel throws his blade.

The guard catches it with his shoulder. It’s not deadly, especially not with the short distance, but it’s enough to freeze the man’s motions. Castiel lurches forward, tackling the man with his full body behind it. It sends them both crashing to the ground, but Castiel’s fall is broken by the guard who takes all the brunt of it. He doesn’t get up afterwards.

He takes a moment to make sure that their little scuffle hasn’t alerted any trouble, but everything is silent except for the thunderous beating of his heart. It’s strange that none of the men had even tried to sound an alarm, but he’ll just take that as a stroke of luck. Castiel yanks his blade out of the man’s shoulder, not bothering to wipe off the blood. He relieves the man of his keys next, putting them in one of his pockets. He can’t count on Dean lock-picking his way out of everything.

The corridor leads up a short way, before it bends to the right and opens into a big room that serves as some kind of common room. There’s one guard slumped on a chair, passed out and snoring. It almost feels anticlimactic. Castiel doesn’t take any chances though. He quickly ties the man up with his belt. After he pretty much slept through the whole of their fight, Castiel isn’t exactly worried about waking him up. But one more tied up guard is one less guard that can pursue them immediately.

It’s thanks to the Mesmeralias that the dungeons are mostly empty. The whole Stadium is emptied out actually, which splendidly works with their plan. Most cells are empty too, except for those that hold the Master’s ‘specials’. High profile criminals with a death sentence and of course, Dean.

But most of those aren’t scheduled to arrive until two days before the culmination Games, transferred from all over the country. So right now there are only two or three filled cells - and Dean.

Rachel told him in which cell Dean is held, she also told him that there are two guards outside, serving as wardens for all the occupied cells. Which serves him well enough. There are two corridors branching off from the common room, one leads to the guard’s quarters and the other to the prison cells, and that’s the one he takes. He took the sword from the passed out guard in the common room, and as soon as he sets eyes on the guards, he throws it. His aim is off; he misjudged the sword’s balance, so the blade lands in the man’s arm and not in his shoulder.

There’s a small part at the back of Castiel’s mind nagging that if he had aimed for the heart the hit would still have been fatal. But no matter how much these men hurt Dean, he can’t bring himself to kill them. He has seen too much death already. But that thinking might now come back to bite him.

The men descend on him with the same cool efficiency that the one guard at the door had and only moments later Castiel is fighting for his life. The only reason he’s able to hold his ground at all is because he hit the man’s good arm, and his left-handed skills with a sword is clumsy at best. But the other guard makes more than up for it. Castiel’s defense is sloppy, the previous fights have exhausted him. He manages to keep them off his vital spots, but he catches more than one blade with his arms or legs, and it’s further drawing his energy.

His chance comes when the injured guard slips - ironically enough on a puddle of blood Castiel left behind - and Castiel doesn’t hesitate as he rushes forward and rams his sword into the man’s belly. It’s a death sentence, prolonged but inevitable nonetheless. Castiel is a doctor, he knows it, but he doesn’t stop to contemplate it, because Dean is waiting and he’s running out of time.

And then he’s running out of luck too.

He’s not quite sure how it happened. One moment he’s stumbling backwards to get out of the last guard’s attack range - the next he’s lying on his back, pinned by the other man with a knife to his throat. For a short debilitating second Castiel is sure that it’s over. The knife digs into his skin, a sharp burst of pain on which his whole being seems to center on.

What comes next runs on pure instinct. Whatever might happen, Castiel is not ready to die yet. So when the knife cuts in deeper and Castiel can feel the pounding of his blood in his ears; a mad rush that’s already weakening; he moves.

It shouldn’t be possible, he’s already burned up too much adrenaline getting here, but there must have been some reserve. His arms are pinned between their torsos but his feet aren’t, and so he kicks out violently, shoving the man up and forward so that he loses his purchase on Castiel and slips off to the side. Castiel cries out when the knife scrapes over his neck, catching on the skin and widening the cut even more, before it clutters to the floor.

He can feel the warm drag of blood down his skin, the burst of adrenaline only helping to pump it out faster, and Castiel’s reaction is again fueled by instinct. There’s no time to think. He rolls over on his side, grabbing the knife from the floor and slamming it into the guard’s chest. The hilt is slippery with blood and the blade skims off a rib, but the wound is enough to incapacitate the man, while not immediately fatal.

But that is the least of Castiel’s problems right now. He’s bleeding profusely, the carotid artery must have been hit and if he doesn’t stem it soon he’ll die. He pinches the skin on both sides of the cut together; it hurts like hell but it suffices for the time being. And that’s really the problem.

And evidently, not enough arms to properly treat the wound.

He’s too weak, the fight has exhausted him and he’s losing too much blood; he can’t risk losing any more, even if that means keeping one hand permanently to his neck. Castiel pushes himself up to his feet, which isn’t exactly easy whit his head swimming in circles. He uses the wall to support him, leaving a trail of blood behind.

The ground is slippery with it; the man he eviscerated earlier has stopped moving, but he’s still bleeding and now the second man adds to the pile. Not to mention that Castiel has also lost a significant amount of blood.

“Dean?” Castiel calls out when he reaches the door to his prison cell. Speaking pulls at the skin he still keeps pinched together. His voice sounds rough, like it had been dragged over gravel and it certainly feels like that. His fingers are slippery with blood and the skin threatens to slip from his grasp. He has to use his nails to keep the skin together, which really puts a strain on his pain tolerance.

“Cas?” The voice is faint, barely audible over the rush of blood in his ears, but it’s a huge relief all the same. “Cas, can you open the door?” There’s a faint knocking sound. “I picked the cuffs, but I can’t open the door.”

Castiel closes his eyes for a moment. Everything is spinning and he can feel his conscience slipping. He needs to move now. It takes way too long for him to find and pull out the keys from his pocket. Dean keeps calling out to him, but he doesn’t have the strength to answer. All is focused on finding the right key and once he has it, getting the key into the lock.

His vision is specked with dark blotches and Castiel isn’t sure how long he’ll be able to stem the blood flow.  

He must have passed out at some point, because the next thing he remembers is lying on the floor (again), only this time he’s not looking up into the face of an unfriendly guard, but into Dean’s worried eyes. “Cas?” He prompts, and there is the hint of subsiding panic.

“Dean.” Castiel croaks, voice barely over a scratch, but Dean’s face lights up regardless. Something sticks to his neck but when he reaches up to touch it, Dean gently catches his hand.

“Don’t touch it. I’ve done the best that I could, but it’s only improvised. Cas… you lost so much blood. I thought you were dead for a moment.” Dean sounds worried, there’s a deep crease between his brows. He looks like he didn’t sleep at all during the night and Castiel can’t blame him.

“Damn it Cas.” There’s anger there now, but it’s tinged with worry and Castiel fights to get his eyes open again. He’s fading again. Dean has done something to stem the bleeding, but he’s lost so much blood. He won’t die, at least he thinks he won’t; but he needs rest and some profound sustenance to get back on his feet.

Only, they don’t have time for that.

Dean is talking again. “Come on Cas. Stay with me.” He can feel Dean’s hands shaking where they hold on to him. He tries, desperately tries, to pull himself together, summon another ounce of strength to get going again. There are new bruises on Dean’s face, his lip is split and there’s dried blood matting his hair. The freshly healed scar on his brow has broken open again, superficially, but still.

It stirs some deeply buried rage in Castiel’s chest. “Dean.” Castiel grips Dean’s arm, tries to convey the urgency of the situation, but Dean understands him well enough.

“I’ve got you.” Dean soothes and pushes his arms under Castiel’s body. Castiel tries to help him as best as he can, but moving sends waves of dizziness through his brain and he has to lean heavily on Dean once they get up. Dean is shaking with the effort, but he doesn’t complain.

Together they stumble down the corridor. Dean doesn’t comment on the two motionless bodies on the floor, but his grip tightens around Castiel’s shoulders. The man in the common room has woken up and is feebly struggling against his bonds. It seems he has been at it for quite a while now. He looks at them with wide scared eyes, renewing his efforts, but neither Dean nor Castiel have the strength to deal with him. They’ll have to hope the bonds will hold.

They make their way out of the common room, and this time Dean whistles quietly through his teeth when he sees the four bodies on the ground. The world has stopped shifting around Castiel, he still feels weak but not like he’s going to faint any second. Just being near Dean again, even bloody up and beaten, seems to have replenished his energy.

“I’m sorry.” Castiel says when they reach the base of the stairs. Dean stops and subsequently forces Castiel to stop too. Dean shifts to lean against the wall, guiding Castiel to rest against his chest.

“For what?” He asks, lifting a hand to rest on Castiel’s cheek.

“This would never have happened had I been more careful.” Castiel looks down, unable to meet Dean’s eyes. Dean’s shirt is dirty, soaked through with sweat and patches of dried blood. Castiel presses his hand against the flat of Dean’s chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart thrum against his palms.

“I’m sorry.” He repeats. Dean is silent for one long suspended moment and Castiel’s hand tenses almost imperceptibly. Then Dean pulls him in for a kiss, just a chaste press of lips against lips but it seems to overflow with emotions. Dean’s hand winds through Castiel’s hair, pulling him even closer and Castiel gives in to the persistent press of Dean’s tongue. Castiel moves his hand to the small of Dean’s back, fingers grasping at the torn fabric and he lets himself fall into the sensations that swirl through him. It doesn’t matter that the kiss tastes overwhelmingly like blood.

“I love you.” Dean whispers against his lips.

Castiel’s world stutters to a sudden stop. He leans backwards, breathless, to look up at Dean. Dean is smiling, his whole face seems to be alight with it. And just like that, Castiel’s world jumps back into gear. He grabs Dean’s neck and pulls him back in, crashing their lips together almost violently.

It’s like he’s alight with the same glow he’s seen on Dean’s face. It’s warm and comforting and Castiel feels like it’s pouring out of his every pore. Part of him is aware that he’s supposed to say something, give Dean some kind of reply, but he’s too consumed with the intensity of their kiss. And judging from Dean’s eager reaction, it’s more than enough.

And then the moment is broken by a voice that Castiel never wanted to hear again in his life.

“Is that your choice Castiel?” They break apart with a start. Castiel sees the look of frozen panic on Dean’s face out of the corner of his eyes, but he doesn’t have the time to dwell on it. Zachariah stands at the top of the stairs, a pale and harried looking Hester at his side.

“I warned you Castiel.” Zachariah says, voice dripping with contempt. “I’m afraid you’ll have to stay right here.” He looks pointedly at the corridor behind them, that leads back to the dungeon. “Don’t get too comfortable though. You’ll have front row seats on Dean’s execution.” Zachariah is smiling wolfishly, leaving little to no doubt as to what ‘front row seats’ exactly means.

Hester lets out a choked sound and grasps at Zachariah’s sleeve. “You said nothing would happen to Castiel.” Her voice is pleading, almost begging, her whole frame shaking with distress. Maybe Zachariah coerced her into doing it, but regardless, Castiel feels nothing but contempt for her right now. He trusted her and she sold him out.

Zachariah yanks his arm out of her grasp, causing her to stumble and almost fall. “What did you expect? He’s a traitor.” He snaps and Castiel can feel Dean’s hand tense where it is wound around his wrist.

“Leave Cas out of this.” He demands.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Zachariah says easily and descends the steps with the air of someone who is completely sure of his superiority. Hester has fallen back against the wall, clutching her hands in front of her chest as she is silently sobbing.

Something seems to painfully tug at Castiel’s heart. Zachariah isn’t armed, at least not as they can see, but neither are they. And both him and Dean are in exceptional bad shape. Dean’s injuries are mostly superficial, but he’s been kept with minimal water and food in a too small space, He has his own exhaustion to battle.

“Castiel.” Zachariah says, voice dripping with that fake generosity again. “I can lay in a good word with the Master if you surrender now. I’m sure he’ll overlook your… temporary lapse of judgment if you make an honest attempt to repent.” There’s something glinting in Zachariah’s eyes, a hint of malice as he looks over to Dean. It’s as if he’s taking personal pleasure in knowing that he thwarted Dean’s escape.

“You’ll be demoted of course. And don’t count on any more leniencies. You’ll also have to be punished for the damage you have caused.” Zachariah’ eyes flick upwards, as if he can actually look through the stone and see what’s going on above them. “But you’ll find it more agreeable than death certainly.” Castiel finds it positively unsettling to see Zachariah actually beam at him. Or what constitutes for beaming with Zachariah’s very limited range of facial expressions.

“Cut the crap man.” Dean shifts again and before Castiel quite understands what has happened, Dean has pushed him back against the wall and positioned himself in front of him. Castiel is simply too weak to protest much against it. And to be honest, he welcomes the support of the wall behind him. He can lean on it heavier than he can on Dean, and that’s what he needs right now.

“I don’t know what you did to that poor woman, but it’s quite obvious that you’re an asshole. I don’t give a rat’s ass what you’re saying, and neither does Cas. Now get out of the way or I’ll have to kick your ass.”

The expression on Zachariah’s face is stuck between indignant rage and disbelief.”You can’t be serious?” Castiel isn’t sure whom he’s addressing, but regardless, the answer is his and his only.

“I am.” Castiel has to move to the side to face Zachariah, because Dean isn’t giving up his spot. “I am serious. Now do what Dean said or face the consequences.” It feels good to threaten Zachariah, even if they have no leverage whatsoever.

For a moment the look on Zachariah’s face is made of pure disgust, but then he pulls himself back together. “Fine.” He snaps. Castiel is still wondering how exactly Zachariah plans to overpower them, when the other grabs Dean’s collar and yanks him forward. Dean, who wasn’t expecting Zachariah to go for him, starts with a yelp as he’s dragged forward.

“I will personally see to it that your execution will be as painful as possible.” He snarls, right into Dean’s face. The anger in Castiel’s chest sparks. He’s weak on his legs but Zachariah is caught as off guard as Dean has been, so when Castiel slams against him, he stumbles and lets go of Dean. He would have caught his fall, but Castiel follows him and the combined weight of their bodies is too much. Zachariah crashes to the ground.

Somewhere close, a woman weeps.

“You won’t lay a hand on him.” Castiel growls, digging his fingers into the soft skin of Zachariah’s throat. “I won’t allow you to.” He’s shaking him, but it’s a feeble effort at best. There’s no strength in his arms. Zachariah’s eyes are wide with terror regardless. As if there’s nothing left underneath the hubris that shattered the moment he hit the floor.

Zachariah’s fingers scramble at his hands, trying to pry him off, but the pressure on his windpipe is quickly draining his strength.

“You are a horrible man.” Castiel is almost shouting now. All the amassed anger at Zachariah’s continued abuse of his position, the endless discussions Rachel had to go through just to get them the meager supplies they’re getting, and all that because of this man.

The world is swimming again. Someone is calling his name, but Castiel can’t see in the blackness that has crept in on his vision.

“Cas.” Castiel snaps back into focus. Dean is looking down on him, worry lines etched deeply into his face.

Oh.

He must have fainted again. Hester has stopped weeping now, but her sniffled breathing is overly loud in the silence that surrounds them. And then there’s a wheezing cough as Zachariah recuperates from Castiel’s attack.

It’s the first time in his life that Castiel finds himself dispassionate towards someone’s death. But Dean pulls him up and away and that’s that.

Hester is a heap on the floor and Castiel finds himself feeling bad for her. It’s reasonable to belief Zachariah forced her into betraying them. Dean’s words ring in his mind. Hester doesn’t meet his eye though, and that, more than anything, tells him that she’s sold his safety for something Zachariah offered.

He doesn’t look back when they ascend the next case of stairs. Castiel is dizzy again, but Dean is equally as weak on his legs so they support each other as much as themselves.

Castiel keeps blacking out though. He’s all fixed on walking. One foot in front of the other, but the area around him keeps changing without him noticing the transition. He somehow manages to relay to Dean where he stashed their supplies. And despite his - albeit weakly - protests, Dean shoulders both the bag and the big satchel. Castiel takes the small one with his medical equipment. He should look after their injuries, but they don’t have time for this.

 And with that, they are off again. He’s relying more and more on Dean, who doesn’t even know where to go. And then they’re surrounded by people all of a sudden. Castiel can’t remember how they got here, but at least now they’re comparably safe.

Guards are funneling the people through the corridors, and that must be why Zachariah came alone. Someone had to quell the panic. There’s an uneasy tension in the air, stale fear, people keep shoving each other and Dean pulls Castiel in closer against his side. No one pays them any mind, not even the guards and Castiel is grateful.

They just go with the flow, Castiel pressed tightly against Dean’s side. Dean rubs a thumb comfortingly on the small of his back, keeps whispering assurances that are lost to Castiel addled brain. But just feeling the soft thrum of Dean’s voice through their aligned bodies, is enough to keep him going.

It’s a miracle, Castiel realizes later. Both their clothes are torn up and caked with dried blood. Castiel has some makeshift bandage wrapped around his neck, also soaked through with blood. Not to mention that Dean’s face looks like a mosaic of colors. But surrounded by people who have just been through a mass panic - neither of them sticks out.

And that’s what saves them in the end.

There’s no trace of either Rachel or Inias, and Castiel can only hope that they got out safe. They get routed out through a side entrance, and just like that, they’re free.

The outside air has never tasted this good to Castiel.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for missing my scheduled update yesterday, but I wasn't home until 10 pm so I went straight to bed.

Castiel wakes to sunlight tickling his nose. And that in itself is something noteworthy. After years of sleeping underground, in a dank room that is barely more than a prison cell, he finally wakes up to sunlight.

Not just sunlight though. He's also wrapped tightly around Dean and that is even better.

He's sore all over, especially his neck is throbbing with constant pain, but right now he wouldn't want to be anywhere else. Dean is warm and breathing next to him. There's a frown on his sleeping face, but it smoothes out when Castiel rubs a thumb over the skin on his back.

They're in a small abandoned hut at the edge of the city. There are parts of the city that are desolate - abandoned. The war had taken its toll. A lot of the men left, harvests were left on the field and a famine had swept away one third of the population. The city hasn't yet recovered, leaving a lot of empty houses and streets. And while the poor had taken over a part, the city area in front of the city gates had been completely abandoned, rumors of ghosts and haunting keeping the general population away.

Thankfully, Castiel knows better. There are no ghosts, only stale air and clouds of dust

The bed is old, the mattress had been good quality once, but it's covered with holes and questionable stains. At least it's not straw. That would have rotted away a long time ago. They covered it with an old blanket Dean found somewhere in a dilapidated closet and while it's scratchy and smelly and most of all, dirty, it's the softest bed Castiel has ever been bedded in.

His memories of yesterday, from the point when they had left the Stadium, are a blur. He remembers directing Dean in the general direction, but has no recollection of how they got here. He remembers Dean pressing some flaky pastry in his hand, warm and dripping with sauce, but he doesn't know how he got it. And most vividly, he remembers the moment when they walked over the doorstep, Dean half carrying him, the taste of apple lingering sweet on his lips, and for a moment it feels like coming home.

Dean had prepared their bed - a nest really - and Castiel had tried to remember what he was supposed to do. Dean was badly hurt and Castiel was a doctor. There was a connection somewhere but it took Castiel way too long to figure it out.

In the end he had needed Dean's help to get them both fixed up. He had to guide him through the steps of properly dressing his neck wound, direct him to the right herbs in his satchel to make a wrap, which is now dried up and itchy, but not yet a bother to get him moving.

He moves closer to Dean, rests his head on his shoulder and just breathes. There's a bit of dried blood from the wound on his brow, but this time the opening is shallow and doesn't require stitches. Castiel wipes it away with his thumb. Dean smiles in his sleep - split lip and all - and Castiel knows that this is all he could ever need. Dean and only Dean.

* * *

Castiel must have fallen asleep again, because the next time he wakes up, Dean is watching him. His eyes are crinkles like he has been smiling and while his face is blotched with color, it's the most beautiful thing Castiel has ever seen.

"Hey Cas." He says softly. Sunlight is streaming in through the partly collapsed roof, and for the first time Castiel notices that Dean's face is splattered with freckles. He reaches up to touch them, watching with wonder as his finger seem to discover more and more of them. They're pale, barely visible, weren't it for the bright sunlight.

Dean moves his head to the side and catches his fingers with his mouth. Castiel sucks in his breath. There's something undeniably intimate about this. Dean isn't doing much, just suckling slightly, but it sends warmth spiraling through Castiel's body.

"Good morning Dean. Have you rested well?" Castiel asks softly and Dean smiles around his fingers. His answer is muffled but affirmative.

"I should check on our wounds." Castiel says, but makes no move to retrieve his fingers.

"You should." Dean has pushed his fingers partially out with his tongue to make his speech intelligible. But as soon as he's finished he sucks him back in. Only to push him out again. "I'm starting to think that is some kind of euphemism." Dean chuckles, his breath ghosting over Castiel's wet fingers. He had never considered his fingers sensitive - not in that way at least - but what Dean does to them has his skin tingle.

It's not even sexual, yet.

"I can live with that." Castiel allows and pushes his finger back into Dean's mouth. Deeper this time, more insistent - demanding. And Dean replies in kind. Had he thought before that finger sucking was a nice feeling, it now takes on a whole other level. Dean goes all out, wrapping his tongue around Castiel's index finger, licking right at the joint of his first two fingers, sucking them in as deep as possible. It doesn't take long for Castiel's breathing to grow erratic.

They're lying on their sides, facing each other, but suddenly that is no longer enough. Castiel tangles the fingers of his other hand with the short hair at the back of Dean's neck and pulls him in for a kiss. It's sloppy with his fingers still in between them, but neither of them minds.

Dean's hand comes to rest on the small of Castiel's back, thumb rubbing circles and Castiel's eyes fall shut as he lets himself sink into the feeling of _Dean_. At some point he pulls out his fingers, but that only leads to a deepening of the kiss.

It's languid and lazy, with just the right amount of urgency to it. There's no rush to it and both take their times. Dean drags his tongue over Castiel's lips and he opens willingly. No matter how often they kiss, it never ceases to be a thrill. Castiel tightens his grip on Dean's hair, using it to angle him to the side, to get better access and it pulls a sound from Dean's mouth that neither of them expected.

Castiel pulls again, sharper this time and Dean's mouth falls slack when another moan spills forth. He's breathing hard already, just from a kiss and a bit of hair pulling. "Cas." His voice sound's wrecked and he licks his lips, eyes flicking up and down the length of Castiel's face. There's something undeniably hungry in his eyes. He licks his lips again. Castiel yanks his head back almost violently.

Dean groans, his whole body aches with the motion. His eyes are screwed shut and he's panting. The pain must have been a bit too much; there are a few droplets of liquid on Dean's eyelids, but when Castiel loosens his grip Dean growls a warning. "Don't you dare let go."

He has to take a second to collect himself. The look on Dean's face is too much. The pain has faded and what's left is pure bliss. Dean's mouth hangs open, his face is covered by a thin layer of sweat and his breath still hasn't evened out.

"Cas." Dean is almost whining, and when Castiel doesn't react, he tries to get a pull of his own by moving his head. Castiel runs his hand through Dean's hair, following the movement without adding any force and Dean huffs out a disappointed sigh. "Come on Cas.

"Do you want it this badly?" Castiel can't help the smirk on his lips. He is not exactly the dominant type, at least he never pegged himself as one, but having Dean at his mercy like that, does things to him. Things he definitely wants to examine further.

He pulls Dean's head back, hands wound tightly around his too short strands, but it serves and Dean lets out a long drawn sigh that borders on a moan. Castiel leans in to kiss him, slow and gentle - opposed to the sharp tugging he keeps up in his hair. And Dean melts against him, hands scrambling to a purchase on Castiel's shoulders.

Usually it's Dean who initiates the next steps, but this time it's Castiel who lets his hands wander lower and lower even, until he can hook it under the hem of Dean's pants. He's careful though. Dean may react positive to rough hair pulling, but the rest of his body is sore and littered with cuts and bruises.

Castiel pushes Dean down gently. He relinquishes his hold of Dean's hair in favor of straddling him. Dean is panting and looking up at him with shining eyes. They lose another moment in a kiss and when Castiel breaks away he's flooded with warmth. They're surrounded by light, the pure light of the sun. The air has that crisp rich smell of morning to it, and not even the stale smell of their half rotten bed has a chance against that. The part of the sky that is visible is clear blue and without a cloud; it will be another hot day, but right now the greatest heat radiates from their two bodies.

Dean's eyes are flecked with gold, bright in the sunlight and filled with so many emotions it takes Castiel's breath away. Castiel shoves up Dean's shirt and after a bit of fumbling they pull it off completely. Dean's skin is paler than it had been when he came in all those days ago, but the scars on his back still stand out starkly, where they reach up to his shoulders. He's covered in bruises and scabbed wounds, but to Castiel's eyes he's beautiful. Marred, but beautiful.

And once he's all healed and all that blemishes his skin will be the marks Castiel left on him, he will be even more so. Dean's fingers trail down Castiel's stomach and he's smiling - warm and inviting. It will be the first time they make love in freedom. And it's with that thought that Castiel leans down and kisses Dean, not sweet and innocently as before, not even the slightly more demanding kiss after he pulled Dean's hair, but deep and with all the passion that has been coursing through his veins, ever since he met Dean.

Again, he's repaid in kind.

Pulling his hair has unleashed something in Dean. Castiel remains in control for a while after, taming Dean with his hands and his tongue, but when Dean finally decides it's time to reverse their roles, he realizes that Dean merely allowed him to do so. Castiel finds himself pinned to the bed all of a sudden, with a very hungry Dean on top.

Castiel might have enjoyed pulling Dean's hair and generally being the one in charge, but he has no problem submitting to Dean. And Dean has enough of an understanding of his body to know where to push to make Castiel moan. And even then, he's still discovering new spots, playing Castiel almost like a finely tuned instrument.

And once he's inside of Castiel, he's overwhelmed, not only by the physical sensations, but by the sheer intimacy. It's Dean after all.

And while Dean surely does his best to sate both their hungers, what gets them out of the bed isn't satiation, but scratchy wool and summer heat. And to no small amount, hunger. Castiel does another checkup on their injuries, especially after the amount of rough play they've been through. But they both have been careful and after Castiel changed the dressing on his neck - with Dean's help - they're good to go. Castiel had packed a generous amount of bandages, but that's no reason to be wasteful.

They have a satchel full of food, but neither is in the mood of that. Not when there's a festival out there that sells an abundance of fresh food. And while they don't have money, there is always a way to get by.

Dressing takes longer than it should, mostly thanks to Dean' wandering hands, but then again, Castiel isn't exactly averse to the attention. But they make it eventually, and after carefully hiding all the evident of their stay, bags hidden away in the collapses closet, they make their way out the door.

The streets are broken up, most buildings have collapsed fully and there are wild plants growing everywhere. There are tables and chairs, overgrown with vines and wild flowers; one building houses a small tree that has uplifted the roof. Birds are singing and at some point a squirrel crosses their path, stopping in the middle of the road to look at them, only to rush off into some bushes a moment later.

Castiel idly wonders what it's doing here of all places. It's strange in a way. This part of the city is a ruin, a reminder of the darker days, yet it feels so peaceful to them. The sun is bright; the air is fresh and undisturbed. He tightens his grip on Dean's hand just a fraction and Dean looks at him with a smile. He must be thinking the same thing then, because he leans in at the exact moment Castiel thinks he wants a kiss.

But the peace is short lived. They can already hear the noise from the celebrations, a constant hum in the air, interspersed with singing and cheers. And then the last of the dilapidated buildings give way to houses that are merely on the brink of collapsing. And while the outskirts of the city are more or less deserted, the closer they come to the city wall, the more people are out and about.

The gates are always open during the Mesmeralias, there are guards stationed, but they don't even attempt to conceal their obvious drunkenness. It's a security leak, but not even the escape of the Master's price prisoner was able to change anything about that. So maybe there's some truth to the saying that during the Mesmeralias the power is with the people and the Master has to buy it back with more and more extravagant games every year.

It's a comforting thought, and about the only reason Castiel has allowed them to be here. Even with their masks, it's still a risk to be outside in open daylight. They're wanted men after all. And they even see a few patrols of guards combing through the masses, but once they're inside the walls, there's no real hope of finding anyone. And while the people where eager to help Castiel on his search for Rachel, no one is willing to help out the guards. The Master might be able to buy the masses' allegiance with blood and games, but he doesn't hold their love.

"I used to celebrate with my brother but all we had was slightly more fancy food than usual and fireworks." Dean says with clear awe in his voice. He keeps looking around, pulling Castiel here and there and his excitement is infecting. Castiel wears a makeshift bandana around his neck to hide the injury, and while it's definitely uncomfortable in this heat, it is necessary. The heat also reminds him that he needs to eat something. On top of still being anemic, he's also had some very exerting activities that drained him, and hadn't it for Dean's insistence yesterday he eat something, he would have long collapsed. And if he doesn't eat something soon, that might still happen.

Also water.

So maybe going out on this little adventure hadn't been the brightest idea. But Castiel had wanted to share this experience with Dean, more than anything, even though the idea stemmed from a time when he thought Dean would die.

Still, the smile on his face is worth it.

They stop at one of the many water fountains that are specifically installed for the Mesmeralias. The city has a complicated system of underground water tunnels, but their use is usually reserved for the rich and the wealthy (i.e. those who can afford to build the necessary construction to access the lines), but it's the Mesmeralias and that means generosity. Even if that entails sharing water with dirty peasants.

The fountain is a work of art. It's carved out of stone, a young girl holding an amphora on her shoulders that pours out the water. Someone put a crown made of cornflowers on her head and a garland of another flower Castiel doesn't recognize hangs from the amphora. Her face is weathered though, only her nose is distinguishable. But Castiel imagines that she had been smiling serenely over the small plaza she watches over.

It's sad in a way. During the rest of the year, the people living close by probably use her to hang their laundry. During market days, the basins are often used to storage goods, while now they are almost overflowing with fresh water.

The edge of the stone basin is covered with wooden cups and bowls, whoever put them there obviously intended them for public use. A group of girls stand off to the side, chatting and throwing off glances at him and Dean when they approach. They start giggling; the realization that they are quite obviously flirting with Dean sends a lurch through his stomach.

And it takes a moment for him to realize that it's jealousy.

Dean puts down the cup he was just attempting to drink from to look at him. "Why are you smiling?" Castiel puts down his own cup and reaches up to touch his own face. It's true; he's smiling. One of the girls gasps and blushes, but that only registers vaguely in Castiel's mind.

He's been hit by jealousy over the girls' attention towards Dean, but the thing is, Dean didn't even notice them. He had only eyes for Castiel. And that's what made him smile.

"I'm happy." The mask is hiding most of Dean's face, but it does nothing to conceal the glint of his eyes. And when they kiss - a quick and chaste thing - the girls at the side squeal and one seems about to faint and has to fan herself frantically - whatever effect that is supposed to have.

The water after that tastes even sweeter.

"What do you want to eat?" Castiel asks after they both sufficiently quelled their thirst. The girls have disappeared by then, but now that he's keyed in on it, Castiel notices that they weren't the only ones eying them with interest. But to Castiel's surprise, he attracts some admirers as well. Even though he only realizes that, after one low growl from Dean directed at one busty woman who apparently had the audacity to walk too close to Castiel.

It's almost strange how both their worlds are centered on one another, like everything else doesn't really matter.

Dean hums, but doesn't give an immediate answer. He's looking around, unable to decide what he wants obviously. They're walking closer together now, one arm wrapped around the other, and Castiel can almost believe that he doesn't need more than this. That he could live just from Dean's presence.

Someone in the crowd starts singing, and soon others have joined in. A flute joins in, and then a drum. Castiel guides Dean to the side, very well familiar with what is about to happen, but Dean isn't. So when the people randomly start to dance around them, he watches them with wonder. There's no plan to it, no order, just the enticing beat of the drums and the pure joy that permeates the air. And that's what makes it so special. They're just people giving in to the spur of the moment, and Castiel can feel the mood tug at him, urging him to just go along with it, pull Dean into his arms and just dance.

Dean laughs, breathless. "Come on." He breathes and pulls Castiel with him. Castiel would have stumbled on the first step, but Dean catches him easily, guiding him into the first steps of a dance that doesn't seem so much of a dance but an assortment of rhythmic steps. But that's about the maximum of sophisticated thoughts Castiel manages before he's swept away by that said rhythm.

It's wild and dizzying, and Castiel would have probably collapsed at one point or another, weren't it for Dean's firm hands. He has one clasped tightly around his shoulder, the other rests almost gently on his hip and he keeps guiding him in circle after circle.

The song changes, without any prior incentive and Castiel stumbles again as Dean goes along with the change of rhythm. People had danced alone or in pairs together, but this new song seems to be a group thing. Lines form, as if guided by an external will, and soon Castiel founds himself in between Dean and a tiny woman in a cheerful yellow dress, holding hands. They stomp their feet on the dusty ground; the lines have formed into circles by now, spinning round and round and Castiel is dizzy but also elated like he's never been before in his life.

The singing has subsided in favor of dancing, but other instruments have picked up the melody. The drums determine the rhythm, fast and unrelenting, but fiddles and trumpets have also joined the lonely flute.

Someone puts a flower crown on Castiel's head in passing, and Dean gets one a few moments later, cornflowers, like the statue at the fountain. It's exalting; Castiel can feel the blood pump through his veins and while he should feel exhausted and weak, he feels like he's brimming with energy. Dean is smiling next to him, face glowing and alive.

The song ends eventually, the lines break apart and Castiel finds himself collapsed against Dean's chest. He's out of breath, panting and sweating like he'd just run a mile in a minute, but the exhilaration is still there. And it's what makes him pull Dean in for a long and deep kiss. And for just a moment it feels like they are the only people in existence; everything else has disappeared around them.

"I love you." Dean whispers against his lips, and even though he's already heard it once, Castiel feels his heart swell in his chest. And this time there is no Zachariah to show up and destroy the moment. So Castiel can lean in to kiss the corner of Dean's mouth, trailing a line up to his ear and whisper his reply. He can feel Dean's heartbeat under his hands, imagines to feel it stutter for a split second, before Dean exhales, shakily.

"You mean that?"

Castiel just smiles and pulls Dean in for another kiss, slower this time and filled with all the emotions swelling in his heart. The crowd parts around them, easily as a river, unperturbed as they are by their passing. But their pull is insistent and they have to break apart eventually.

"Okay, now I'm hungry." Dean says with a broad grin and pulls Castiel with him to the nearest stall. It has some sort of fried dough on display, covered with sugar and spices and smelling irresistibly sweet. They don't have money or anything of worth to trade, but the vendor isn't watching his goods anyway. People come and take some all the time, most drop coins in the waiting bowl, but some don't.

It doesn't matter either way. Those who are generous are generous enough for those who aren't, and sharing is all in the spirit of the Mesmeralias. Castiel chooses a plain one, with a bit of cinnamon and sugar sprinkled on top, while Dean takes one that is covered with sweet cocoa cream, and judging by the orgasmic sigh Dean lets out after biting in, also filled with it. The sound actually manages to make Castiel feel even hotter, even though the sun already does its best to make him sweat.

Castiel feels a bit dizzy, no doubt an after effect of their impromptu dance, the prolonged heat exposure and his anemia. He's more knowledgeable when it comes to physical injuries, but as a doctor he would strongly advise himself to get some shade, water and rest. And probably some liver too.

"Dean." Castiel grips Dean's arm, attempting to get his attention but ends up using him for support mostly.

"Cas, what's wrong?" There's a speck of cocoa cream on Dean's lip and Castiel wonders how Dean would taste with cocoa cream on top.

"I need to sit down." The heat is getting to him, or maybe it's Dean who has his blood boiling, but either way, he needs some cooling off. Dean leads him to another fountain, at the edge of a small plaza surrounded by trees and benches. This one has two children locked in an eternal dance, with water spilling from the tips of their fingers. Rose petals swim on the water, scenting the air with a sweet fragrance. Only in its absence, Castiel realizes the stale stench that permeates the air around them. There is a giant oak tree directly behind the fountain, overlooking the plaza like a mother hen does her flock.

People have flocked in the shade, sitting and resting, but there is a spot free on the steps that lead up to the basin. Dean helps him to sit down, but just being out of the sun already makes Castiel feel better.

"Maybe we should go back." Dean suggests softly after pressing a cup of water into his hands. Castiel takes it and empties it in one go. It tastes heavenly. And faintly of roses.

"We should." He allows, and gives Dean the cup to refill it. "But I don't want to." He looks up at Dean, smiling softly. His eyes are darker without the sun pulling out their spark, the flecks of gold almost invisible.

"There'll be fireworks." He runs his fingers down Dean's cheek, drags it over the smear of cocoa cream on his lip. He intended to lick it off his finger, but Dean's lips fall open slightly, an invitation that Castiel can't resist.

"I've seen fireworks." Dean says, but he sounds like he's in trance. The rub of tongue over his finger as Dean talks, sends something warm and tingly through his body.

"Not like this." Castiel whispers, voice hoarse. "They celebrate life Dean." Something seems to melt in Dean's eyes and he smiles. He tightens his lips around Castiel's finger like a kiss, before he lets go.

"Okay, Cas."

On a medical point of view, staying up and about is stupid and possibly dangerous in his condition. But Castiel doesn't care. He wants to do this for Dean, he wants to do it with Dean.

And Dean is set on taking care of him. As a result, Castiel isn't allowed to get up from his spot at the fountain, and Dean regularly wanders off to fetch him something he insists Castiel needs. Somehow he ends up with a pillow stuffed behind his back, a bowl with some indefinable smush in it, that Dean insists on being health food and, after a lot of insistence, a plate full of grilled calf's liver. Not his first choice, not by a stretch, but better than suffering from anemia for another few days.

Dean settles next to him at some point, a basket of fruits on his knees, and that in itself is remarkable. Castiel has sat through meals of Dean going on about how much he likes meat and how little patience he has for anything that has to grow on soil first. Which is yet another form of inconvenient, considering that meat is expensive and most people can't afford it more than once a month. So for Dean, to pass up a perfectly good chance to get delicious meat for free, just to share something healthy with Castiel, is just nearly enough to blow away his mind.

That doesn't mean Dean doesn't wander off a few minutes later to find himself a nice piece of smoked sausage to compensate for the 'rabbit food'. It's still a nice sentiment. And when Dean starts feeding him grapes, Castiel thinks, that this might be as close to paradise as it can get. And if he licks off any excess juices from Dean's fingers, and if that results in some highly inappropriate moaning, it's no one's business but their own.

Castiel has been struggling with the urge to take off Dean's mask to see all his face, but that would be unwise. Dean is smiling, mouth wide with a grin, as he lounges back on the stairs, back against the fountain and legs stretched out in front of him. The mask only covers half of his face up to the nose, but at least they don't obscure his eyes.

It's impossible to see the specks of gold in Dean's eyes in the shade of the tree, but Castiel knows they're there. He feels better now, thoroughly rested, kept out of the sun and basking in Dean's presence.

"So these people have been partying for what, two weeks now?" Dean asks after he finished his sausage. He's playing with an apple in his hands, tossing it from one into the other, but somehow Castiel gets the feeling that he isn't intending on eating it. Castiel is busy peeling a mango with a knife, sharing the pieces with a little girl who has been dumped at the fountain by her mother who had to attend some 'mommy business'. Usually leaving a child alone on the streets can result in anything, varying from abduction to cold blooded murder, but during the Mesmeralias strangers would go out of their way to look after the stray.

Sometimes Castiel marvels at the change of attitude from selfish and cruel, to open-minded and kind. People who had been abusing those who were only a little less fortunate at a daily basis, would eagerly share their wine with a beggar during the festivities. Only to go back to being mindlessly cruel when it was all over. It's a wonder all in itself.

"More like ten days." Castiel corrects softly, smiling down at the girl who watches him with big eyes as he shares another bit of mango. She's probably been spoiled rotten already, but that doesn't mar her unbridled joy. And, of course, mangoes are a rare import from the South, and Castiel isn't exactly sure how Dean got his hands on one. "There are three more days of celebration before the culmination."

"Culmination, huh? That's where I was supposed to die?" Castiel looks at the girl, but she doesn't seem to have paid attention to their conversation. In any case, Castiel gives her the rest of the mango and sends her off to play somewhere else. She obliges, happily enough, after spotting two boys in her age who have come with their parents to rest in the shade.

"Yes." Castiel allows, without looking at Dean.

"That's messed up dude." Dean looks around with a frown. The people near them are all quiet and resting, but outside of their little plaza people are going about it like they haven't done that for the past week already. Like their whole lives are made of celebrations and happiness. And none of them give any inclination that it all ends with blood and death.

"It is." Suddenly the sun doesn't seem as bright anymore. But all it takes is one look at Dean and Castiel feels better again. It's true that the culmination ends in blood, but it's not Dean's blood and that is everything wants at this moment.

"Where I come from, we celebrated for like two days, and then went back to work." Dean finally gives up on his apple and drops it back into the basket in favor of a peach. Seeing the juice dribble down Dean's cheeks is yet another thing on the long list of things that Dean does that irrationally arouse Castiel.

"Where are you from?" Castiel can't believe he hadn't asked that already. It feels like he has known Dean all his life, while in truth, he rarely knows a thing about him. He knows about Alastair, and he knows a little about Sam. And of course, he has memorized a long list of small things about Dean; how his eyes seem to be perpetually smiling, even when his mouth isn't. How one of his hands is always hovering close to Castiel, not always touching, but constantly waiting. The sounds and faces he makes while eating, the pure bliss that rivals the one he displays in bed. All the small things he loves about Dean.

But while that could fill a library, it is not nearly enough to know the real Dean.

"Have you ever heard of the village of Lawrence?" Dean has finished his peach and is now nibbling on the kernel, either completely oblivious to the effect that has on Castiel, or doing it on purpose to rile him up. Point is, getting sexually aroused during this heat, isn't exactly healthy in his condition. But that doesn't mean it doesn't work on him.

"No I haven't." Castiel tries to focus on something other than the sucking sounds Dean, and that he is certain of, makes on purpose now.

"Well, it's small and off the grid, but the pie made from our apples can blow your mind." For a moment Dean is grinning widely, excited at the memory, but Castiel can see the moment it al drains out of him. "My mom used to make them." Dean drops the peach kernel, watching it as it bounces down the stairs and onto the ground. Dean tries to smile, but it's weak and sad - and vulnerable.

Castiel opens his mouth to say something, but there are no words. He hasn't seen his own parents in years, had never been close to them in fact, but he understands the worth of family. Balthazar had been his family.

Dean swallows and closes his eyes. Castiel does the only thing he can think off. He scoots closer to Dean, not touching him quite yet, but close enough to offer comfort. Dean takes a deep breath to steady himself. He looks up at Castiel and offers a small smile, enough to tell Castiel that while still sad, he's alright again.

"I think that's why Alastair picked our village." Dean starts after he has calmed down. He's playing with the apple again, but Castiel figures he needs the distraction. "We were small, yet we had everything we needed. My father was the village's drunk, always drinking and gambling away money, but you already know how that story ends." Dean shrugs and rubs a hand over his neck.

"But yeah, that's it. Small town boy up in the big wide world."

"If you were so far from the grid why did the Master…" Castiel trails off, realizing that asking that might be a bit inappropriate, if not rude, but Dean just laughs it off.

"You mean why the Master even bothered with a small town criminal?" Dean shrugs, but this time there is a derisive nature to it. "Turns out Alastair was his buddy or something."

Castiel sighs. "I'm sorry Dean."

"Don't be." Dean mirrors his sigh. "It led me to you after all." They hold each other's gaze for a long moment, and finally Castiel smiles in answer to Dean's smile.

They're silent after that. There's nothing that needs to be said. It's just the two of them, and Castiel thinks, not for the first time, that that will always be enough. People come and go around them, and some offer them refreshments or share their food with them, and Dean gives out all the apples he, for some reason, collected even though he doesn't seem to like them.

Castiel feels way better, but he doesn't feel like getting up. And judging by Dean's relaxed face, he isn't in a hurry to leave either. The sun finally sets, and the temperature drops slightly, at least in the shade, but as the sky grows darker, thousands of fires light up around them. Candles are lit, torches and coal pans, some rare oil lamps and many more dancing flames of varying origin.

The smell of food wafts through the air, drowning out even the flower fragrance that had surrounded them all day. While food had been present during the whole of the day, now is the time when people start grilling everything they can get their hands on. It's overwhelming and it doesn't take long for Dean to get restless.

"Dean, you have been eating the whole day." Castiel chides, but he can't quite hide the smile.

"I haven't tried half of the food here. Come on Cas." Sometimes, Castiel thinks, that he would follow Dean's 'Come on Cas' to the end of the world. No matter what he's proposing, he will follow. That thought is strangely comforting.

"We need to get a good spot for the fireworks." Dean beams as he drags Castiel through the crowd, fingers closed tightly around his hand. Castiel is well rested, but the heat has exhausted him, not to mention that he's still suffering from his injuries. While none of them had been particular deep, he had lost a lot of blood, and most of the cuts, especially the one on his neck, still hurts pretty badly. Dean on the other hand doesn't seem to be bothered by his injuries at all, neither the old ones nor the new.

It's rejuvenating somehow. Dean has become pretty familiar with navigating through the crowd, snagging of bits of food every now and then, feeding Castiel every new finding he makes, while at the same time shielding Castiel from all the people who might come to close. It's endearing, and Castiel feels suffused by warmth hat is fundamentally different from the heat coming off the various fires.

And it's when the skies above them are lit with fires and light, and the people around them are cheering, that Castiel realizes that this, truly and unequivocally, is love. If he's ever asked what love is, he will refer to this precise moment, Dean's arms wrapped tightly around him, the light of the fireworks reflected in Dean's eyes.

No grand gestures, no pathos filled speeches, just the two of them, finely tuned in to each other, enough so that Dean instantly notices when Castiel gets cold and pulls him in tighter to rub heat back into his arms. Enough so that Castiel can read the beating of Dean's heart against his back like a book.

They make their way back in the dim light of the glow stones embedded in the street, lighting up at night to guide the weary home. But they are sparse now, many have lost their magic and no one cares to refill them, others have been stolen. Still, the night is beautiful, stars shining above, mirrored in a few scattered stars on the ground.

And it doesn't matter that he knows little about Dean's past; he knows the milestones and he _knows_ Dean. That really is all that matters.


	12. Chapter 12

Waking up this time is much like it had been the day before. The sun is warm and insistent on Castiel's face, but it doesn't hold a candle to the heat that radiates from Dean's body. Dean had more or less carried him home yesterday, after the fireworks. Castiel hadn't been as exhausted as Dean had insisted he must be, but he hadn't had it in him to deny him. Not when Dean was so obviously thrilled to be his knight in shining armor for once.

And it wasn't all that bad, considering that, after Castiel made his intentions clear with a very insistent kiss, Dean, in turn, insisted on pleasuring Castiel, pushing down his advances every time he tried to reciprocate.

Dean is still asleep, chest pressed to Castiel's back, and judging by the smacking sound he makes, he's dreaming about food. But then Dean grumbles something under his breath and moves closer to Cas, pulling him back against his chest and Castiel realizes that Dean probably isn't dreaming about food.

"Cas you kinky minx." Dean mumbles, smacking his lips again. Castiel can't help but blush, even though he has no idea what exactly Dean is dreaming about. But it must be pretty vivid, because Dean's hands have started to wander lower on Castiel's body, skimming over bare skin.

"Dean?" Castiel asks quietly, not sure if the other is actually awake or still dreaming. Dean mumbles something incoherent and continues his quest to get Castiel as hot and bothered as he obviously is. His face is buried in Castiel's neck, and Castiel has a hard time reining his moans in when Dean starts nibbling on the skin there. Not that the hand that's skimming over his hips isn't also dealing blow after blow to his self control.

It's not that he doesn't like the advances, he'd just preferred it if Dean were awake. "Dean." He insists, louder this time, and the sudden jerk of the body behind him, tells him that Dean is finally awake.

"Cas?" Dean asks, voice sounding a bit hoarse. "Why am I fondling you?" Castiel doesn't need to see his face to know the frown currently etched on it.

"I believe you have been dreaming." Castiel informs him.

There's a short pause, and then, "Okay." Dean doesn't seem to be bothered by that revelation; on the contrary, it seems to give him course to continue. Castiel can't exactly say he is adverse to how his mornings seem to be playing out lately.

Not at all.

Whatever it was Dean had been dreaming about, it must have been igniting his fantasy. He presses Castiel down into the sheets, putting almost all of his weight behind it and Castiel is strangely aroused by that. It's like that time when he pulled Dean's hair and Dean retaliated by - and there is really no other way to describe it - fucking him thoroughly.

Who knows, maybe Dean dreamed of said hair pulling.

"I should be careful I suppose." Dean says, but his actions are almost in a sharp contrast. He's pulling Castiel's hands up and over his head, turning his body to lie on his back, using his weight to hold them down with one hand, while the other drags blunt nails down his chest.

"Yes, you should be." Castiel breathes, only to arch up a second later when Dean pinches one of his nipples.

"I can't seem to be careful with you right now." Dean's thumb digs into his sternum and Castiel gasps. He's panting already, and his cock is half hard, without Dean ever laying hand on it. "Cas." He growls, breathless and eyes wide with a deep desire that takes what little breath Castiel has left, away. "You make me all kinds of crazy."

"Dean." Castiel's chest is heaving, and if he could he would reach up to touch Dean's face then, but all he can do is smile up at him. The wound on his neck is throbbing, and he has every reason to insist on Dean being careful, but there is something about him that makes it so easy to forget that he's supposed to be careful. He doesn't want to be careful, he doesn't want to be responsible; all he wants is Dean. "Please."

Consequences be damned.

Castiel closes his eyes; he has to, the intensity in Dean's eyes is too much for him to handle. Sometimes he feels like Dean is the sun that threatens to burn him whenever he gets too close. Castiel has spent years living in the dark, facing the inevitability of death, and then Dean came along and now Castiel spends his time next to his very own personal sun.

Dean erases that - admittedly cheesy train of thought - by answering his plea and pressing his lips insistently against Castiel's. And maybe it's a good thing that despite his adversity to being careful tonight, Dean still stays clear of all the spots on Castiel's body that are healing. He kisses Castiel's neck, the side that isn't injured, grazing his teeth along the edge of the bandage, licking underneath and making a face at the taste of the liniment Castiel put on the day before. And he puts special attention to the area behind Castiel's ears, until Castiel is writhing and gasping and so close to begging it's frightening.

And still, Dean hasn't even touched him between his legs yet.

"Dean." Castiel rasps, pushing his hips upwards, hoping that Dean will take the hint, which, of course, he doesn't. His grin however tells a rather obvious story of how much he is aware of Castiel's desperation and just how much he enjoys playing with it. Dean moves his body out of the way so that Castiel's hips angle into empty space, causing a frustrating growl to fall from Castiel's lips.

And every time Castiel voices his frustration or tries to urge Dean on further, it seems only to add to Dean's enthusiasm to deny him gratification. Dean's mouth is latched to Castiel's nipple, has been for a while now and Castiel doesn't think it could get any more intense than that. He's losing his mind, hands clenched tightly together, where Dean still holds them down above his head.

Dean's fingers trail down over his belly, lightly, barely even a touch and still it has Castiel writhing. Dean has played with him for quite a while now, and at this point Castiel has become hyper sensitive to the barest of touches. He's no longer above begging, but Dean has yet to relent.

"You're beautiful like this." Dean murmurs, voice a hot breath over Castiel's sensitive skin. He flicks out his tongue and Castiel's vision fills with sparks for a second. He can't exactly see what Dean did to his chest, the view is blocked by Dean's head, but whatever it is; it has his nipples react to the slightest stimulation.

Maybe, if this goes on, Castiel might just come untouched. Dean sure would like that. And by the looks of it, that is what he's aiming for. Dean kisses his way down Castiel's stomach, following the trail of his hands, but he stops before he reaches the spot where Castiel really wants him. He licks into Castiel's belly button, as deep as it goes, and that doesn't actually feel as good as Dean probably expected, but it also serves to cool down Castiel's desire just slightly.

"Dean." He tries to wriggle out of his grasp. It's not that he doesn't enjoy this - on the contrary - but it's definitely time to move this along. Dean's teeth scrape over his lower belly, and it's almost enough for him to lose it again. "Please." He moans, cock throbbing painfully and very, very demanding.

"Don't play around." He tries to make it sound like a command, but it comes out like the desperate plea it truly is. "Just get on with it." Dean finally releases his wrists, a playful smirk on his lips, and Castiel doesn't waste any more time to pull Dean into the kiss he had craved for quite a while now.

"As you wish." Dean growls against his lips, dragging his teeth over them. Dean doesn't give Castiel the time to adjust to the change of pace, before he has him writhing on his back again. Castiel can't tell where Dean had hidden the lube (the one he bought the other day), but suddenly there's a rather cool and wet finger probing at his backside.

Castiel pushes his head back into the bed as Dean breaches him, gasping for air and trying, just trying to keep it together long enough to get to the actual fun. Dean would never let him live it down if he came now. Dean wiggles his finger and Castiel's voice almost gives out. Castiel thinks fleetingly that he should give something back to Dean, but he can't get his thoughts together long enough. And besides, Dean doesn't seem to be too bothered about his own pleasure right now. Not when he has a finger buried knuckles-deep inside of Castiel and is breathing hard just from that.

He's going half mad with desire by the time Dean deems him ready and pulls out his fingers. Castiel had felt ready minutes ago, but it seems like Dean is on a strict teasing agenda this morning. When he finally aligns himself and pushes in, it feels like something tight that has been lodged in Castiel's chest loosens and he just breathes in the sensation. Dean wound him up and now he's uncoiling and it is the best feeling Castiel can think of.

Dean is at the end of his patience too; the moment he's fully sheathed inside of Castiel and after Castiel has signaled his readiness, he moves. Not carefully gentle, not slow teasing, but fast and forceful, pulling out and slamming right back in before Castiel can even begin to prepare. His fingers dig into Castiel's hips, keeping him at the right angle and constricting any of his movements, but there isn't much he could do right now anyway. Dean has him at his mercy, and Castiel wouldn't exchange that for anything else.

Castiel is speaking, there are words falling from his lips, but he can't tell for the life of him what he's saying. It must be Dean's name though, because his green eyes are shining above him and even in his fucked out state, Castiel can see the love in them. Dean's eyes are wide, the green retreated to a mere rim, and there is some deep seated hunger in there, but the love underneath is undeniable. Castiel is blown away by the sheer intensity of it.

It doesn't take long after that; just a few rough strokes of Dean's hands and Castiel comes, quick and violent, with a shout on his lips that has his voice run hoarse. Dean smirks, all shiny teeth and mirth; his rhythm doesn't falter in the least and Castiel thinks he must go mad, because the intensity takes his breath away. His cock is spent, but that doesn't stop the pleasure from rolling through him in waves every time Dean thrusts into him. His skin is tingling, and all he can do is grab Dean and pull him down into a wild kiss, until Dean tenses; hips stuttering as he empties himself into Castiel.

Getting up afterwards seems like an impossibly arduous task.

Castiel wonders if too much sex could negatively affect one's healing process. His legs feel weak and getting up turns out to be quite the ordeal; he would have probably fallen flat on his face hadn't it been for Dean. Otherwise he feels good, just a bit exhausted, but nothing that a good meal can't fix. And to be honest, he could get used to Dean's special treatment. He has been taking care of people for so long, with no regard to his own well being, that it feels refreshing to be the one at the receiving end for once.

Even though it makes him feel kind of useless. And that's a feeling Castiel doesn't like at all.

That's also why he insists on making breakfast, a task that isn't exactly hard, considering that he only has to pull out some of the rations he packed and divide them between the two of them. That's probably also why Dean lets him do it in the first place.

"You have to stop babying me." Castiel broaches the subject while nibbling on a piece of cheese, the tart taste unfamiliar to his tongue after the richly decadent meals yesterdays. Dean looks at him, startled and a confused scrunch to his brow, like he hadn't realized that he had been doing it.

"Cas-"

"I appreciate it; I really do, but I'm not… helpless." Castiel throws up his arms, a gesture that he himself doesn't even know what it's supposed to convey. He has been enjoying the attention, no doubt about that, and part of him wants to revel in it forever, but he can't. He's a doctor, and while a short reprieve might be welcome, he ultimately is a caretaker.

"I know." Dean's face is open, all soft lines and smiles, but there is something in his eyes that is almost weary. "I know that Cas. It's not about that." He shrugs, helplessly. "I know you're not helpless." Dean's hands fall down on Castiel's, gently prying the piece of cheese from them and winding his fingers through his. "It's just…"

"Dean," Castiel interjects and squeezes his hands back. "It's okay." He smiles, trying for soft but it turns out more toothy than intended. "It's Sam isn't it?" He and Dean are the same after all. They're both caretakers; they both need someone to take care of. Dean frowns, confused, but then he comes to the same conclusion.

"We're quite the couple are we?" Dean chuckles, embarrassed almost. He rubs a hand over his neck, before he pulls Castiel in for a quick peck to the lips. "How about you let me coddle you until you're healed and then we're even for the time you've taken care of me. How's sound that?"

Castiel laughs, the sound surprising even him and he ducks his head. "I have to admit it's nice for a change."

"That's what I thought."

* * *

Breakfast does wonders to refill his strength, but he still decides to refuse Dean's advances after they cleared up. They'll be able to have a lot of sex whenever they want now, so he prefers to be cautious and not overdo it, while the two of them are still injured. Dean, after a lot of pouting, finally relents.

The smart thing to do would be packing up and get the hell out of dodge (as Dean so eloquently put it), but somehow neither of them quite feels like leaving yet. Yesterday had been a stark contrast to the dank underground of the infirmary, so full of life and light. Neither of them is willing to leave that behind. And so they pick up their masks and make their way back into the city.

"Who does even pay for all this stuff?" Dean asks after they ran into some kind of parade with lots of exotic dancers, streamers and one of the inevitable petal showers that have the streets almost swim in flowers. Momentarily, the scent of lavender and roses is so heavy that it overwhelms the ever present sewage stench, but in the end it's the food stalls that win out. Castiel will never grow used to the potpourri of smells permeating the air at this time of the year, but according to Dean it has a unique charm.

Castiel decided a long time ago not to think too deeply about just where exactly all the smells come from. It's nice enough when it's just flowers or even food, albeit that can get a bit overwhelming in its own way - Castiel is not fond of an all-grease diet - but there's the stench of the sewage, or rather the lack thereof. In certain districts, people just dump their waste on the street. If they're nice, they use side alleys, but even that doesn't help much. Then there are the countless puddles of vomit, left by the even more countless drunks, and a lot of other things Castiel doesn't want to think about.

The real question should probably be, who cleans up afterwards?

"Mostly the Master." Castiel watches a bunch of kids as they chase each other, running and screaming, cheeks flushed red from their efforts and the summer heat. "His nobles come up for the rest. Good fortune is supposed to come to those who prove themselves generous." Castiel cites the well-known reasoning behind said generosity. It's probably nothing more than a superstition, but it can't be denied, that despite countless wars and a very unhappy general populace - the empire strives.

"Is that so?" Dean raises an eyebrow and takes another look around. "It is kind of awesome, I guess."

"I guess." Castiel echoes, smiling softly at Dean. Their eyes meet and for a moment they just stare at each other, but then Dean's smile widens into a full blown grin. Castiel feels the laugh bubble in his chest, and it's strange and totally out of nowhere, but it feels right to give in so he does. And no one around them cares that they're laughing in the middle of the street. A few even join in, simply for the joy of it.

And it's then that it settles in with Castiel, they've made it. Dean is free and safe and they can stay together for however long they can stand each other. Castiel sure hopes that it will be forever.

* * *

They don't stay as long as the day before. Caution finally caught up with them and they decide to no longer tempt fate and leave the city behind. Castiel doesn't have a real plan as where to go, but Dean proposes they go to his father's friend Bobby's place, for he's the one who most likely took Sam in after Dean was taken away.

And Castiel can't really argue with that. If Balthazar were still alive he would be the first person he would want to see. But then again, if Balthazar were still alive, he would have never ended up here and consequently never met Dean. So that had to count for something. They would just have to be careful.

The hut is as silent and dusty as they had left it, only the bed hints at its recent occupation. Their bags are stacked neatly next to the entrance, ready to go, but Castiel wants to look at both their wounds before heading out.

Castiel had packed plenty of medical equipment, but both their combined states of injuries had blown through his supplies pretty fast. He's in the middle of applying the last of his salve to Dean's various bruises when Dean perks up. "Do you hear that?" He's frowning, concerned.

Castiel drops his hand and looks up, but there is nothing there. "No." He mirrors Dean's frown. It's late afternoon and there is no reason for anybody to be out there. It might be some stragglers, looking for a quiet spot or something. He tells Dean as much, even though it's highly unlikely for anyone to come out this far into the superstitiously abandoned part of the outer city. But then again, Castiel and Dean are here, and it can't be anything else, right?

Dean is still frowning, but after intense listening doesn't provide any further information, he gives up. Castiel finishes his treatment, straining his ears, but like Dean, he comes up blank. Maybe it was just some spooked animal. "That's it. I'll hopefully be able to restock on herbs on our way." Castiel leans back on his heels and puts the lid back on the now empty jar.

He leans over to put his medical satchel back together, back turned to the entrance, when Dean suddenly jumps to his feet. "What-" His voice gets cut off and Castiel moves to turn around, but something heavy and sharp pushes into his back. Castiel groans when he hits the floor, the wooden boards creak and release a cloud of dust into his face. The heavy weight presses in between his shoulder blades and he realizes belatedly that it's a boot.

His mind is reeling, million possibilities whirring through his head at once. Maybe they're bandits, thieves passing through who will just take their stuff and leave them alone. He can't see Dean from his position, but judging by his grunts and curses, he's struggling. There's a dull sound, flesh hitting flesh and Dean's curses end with a pained groan.

Castiel tries to get a look at what happens behind him; he needs to know in whose hands they are, but the boot thwarts his efforts by grinding down brutally. "Who are you?" He grounds out between clenched teeth. His body is protesting the pressure and he has to breathe shallowly to get the much needed air.

"Shut up." The boot grinds down again, the tip digging painfully in between Castiel's shoulder blades and he has to bite back the pained yelp. The voice had belonged to a man, but other than that and that its owner clearly doesn't allow any leniency, it reveals little about their captors.

"Leave him." Dean snaps from somewhere behind him, but he gets pretty much the same reply as Castiel got.

"You sure, these are the ones?" Someone asks, voice as unfamiliar as the first one.

"Without a doubt." The first voice replies, derisively and with a distinct air of disgust to it. "Our two lovebirds have built themselves a love nest." Someone laughs, but the sound is not at all comforting. "The Master will be pleased."

Castiel closes his eyes. He had been afraid of that. He had hoped - against all odds - that they had just ended up in the hands of bandits, but that hope is now pretty much smashed. They are screwed. They shouldn't have stayed here for so long, they should have moved on as soon as possible. It had been a mistake, a stupid mistake that has now put Dean in danger.

But Castiel can't just give up; they've worked too hard, they've come too far to let it all just go to waste because of some dumb mistakes. He can't allow that. Castiel struggles; wiggles to get out from under the boot, but it is pointless. Someone kicks his arms out under him the moment he manages to push himself up and he barely manages to protect his face when he falls down.

"Don't get cocky." A foot connects with his side and Castiel tries to curl in on himself, but the boot on his back won't let him. Dean yells something, and there are sounds of struggle behind him, and Castiel renews his efforts, but then there's a thickening thump and Dean is abruptly silent. Castiel doesn't get the time to react before something hard connects with the back of his head and he blacks out


	13. Chapter 13

It had been a dream. That’s what Castiel thinks when he wakes up. It must have been a dream and he is still safe in Dean’s embrace. It has to be.

But the pain in his body, especially his head, tells otherwise. The surface he’s lying on is too hard to be Dean and he feels way too miserable. His head is pounding, and there is an insisting ache behind his ribs that makes breathing hurt. Castiel keeps his eyes closed in an attempt to delay the inevitable. He k _nows_ that he’s alone; Dean’s absence is like a giant hole in his chest; a vacuum in the room that sucks everything in, but as long as he keeps his eyes closed he can pretend.

He can’t escape reality forever though. Castiel reaches out with his hands, eyes still closed, to try and get some bearings of his surroundings, although he has a rather good idea where he is. The surface he’s lying on is cold and hard, there’s water dripping from somewhere and the air smells rank and like other things Castiel doesn’t want to think too hard about.

Since blindly groping around would inevitably lead to touching something he really doesn’t want to touch Castiel finally opens his eyes, only to see - nothing. It’s dark, there’s no source of light and Castiel blinks a few times but to no avail. He carefully pushes himself up, head protesting loudly and he has to close his eyes again. He’s dizzy and if he would see something the world would probably be spinning now, but as it is, he’s horribly disoriented and endures a terrible moment in which he doesn’t know where up and down is.

When he opens his eyes the next time he’s able to make out silhouettes, dark shades against darker shades and maybe if he just waits long enough his eyes will adjust. His head is spinning and he fears he might have a concussion. Something pricks his hand and he gropes around blindly to discover a thin covering of straw on the ground.

One of Castiel’s hands bumps into a wall and Castiel carefully moves over to lean against it. He doesn’t know how much time has passed, but it can’t be long. He can’t see it but the cut on his neck still feels raw, so does the bump on the back of his head.

He can make out his surroundings now, it’s just outlines and shapes, but then again, there isn’t so much to see to begin with. He’s in one of the prison cells underneath the Stadium, and that means limited room, no window and a lot of dubious stains and at least one corner he should definitely stay away from. Fortunately there are no rats though. At least he hopes there aren’t.

“Cas?”

At first he thinks he must have heard things. It can’t be that he hears Dean. There is at least one stone wall between them; there’s no way he could hear him. But there is no doubt about it, when he hears Dean for the third time. There’s a note of despair to it.

“Dean?” Castiel turns around to face the wall in his back and that’s when he sees it. It’s a wonder he has missed it until now. A part of the wall has collapsed, not enough to be a breakthrough, but enough to allow communication between the two adjacent cells. Castiel scrambles to get close to the collapsed segment, pressing his ear against the stone to better listen.

“Cas, you alright?” Dean’s voice is frantic, but there is also relief to it and Castiel feels an immense pressure lift from his chest that he hadn’t realized was there. Dean is alive.

“Yes.” Castiel’s throat feels sore and his voice is even gravellier than usual, not to mention all the other pains of his body, but right now, he doesn’t care. Because Dean is alive.

“How about you?”

“Not so much.”

Castiel frowns, the worry returning. “What’s wrong?”

“I feel like my skull is split open.” There’s a short terribly panicked moment when Castiel can’t focus enough to grasp the meaning of what Dean has said. His mind is assaulted with countless images from the war, corpses strewn on the ground, brain spilling out on the dirty roads as their heads are nothing more than a crushed mess. He has seen too many head wounds, too many overconfident soldiers, insisting they’re fine, when only hours later they were dead on the floor, brain irreversibly damaged by ‘just some crack’.

“Relax.” Dean groans and Castiel hadn’t realized he had started hyperventilating. “I meant figuratively, there’s no blood, just a lump and it hurts like hell.”

Castiel forces his breathing to steady, there’s not much he can do from here, but he can at least try and give a diagnosis. “You’ve got hit on your head?” Castiel recalls the sickening sound he heard shortly before he was knocked out himself. But there had been struggles before that, sounds of hitting and while Castiel feels comparably fine, Dean could be off much worse. His head is throbbing, but from what he can tell he has a light concussion at worst.

“Among other things.” There’s rustling following Dean’s words and then a relaxed sigh as if Dean just found a position that is comfortable.

“Where is your headache located?” Castiel carefully moves from his crouch to lean his back against the wall next to the crack; he’s not as close to the opening but it’s a lot more comfortable.

“In my head?” Dean asks with a confused chuckle. Castiel doesn’t miss the tired note to it though.

“There are differently natured headaches.” Castiel explains. “Pain located at the back of your head, where the Occipital lobe is located often indicates a migraine, while pressure building behind your eyes often stems from exhaustion. And pain from a concussion is more encompassing, with no clear origin, but might locate around the point of impact. Other symptoms are dizziness and nausea.”

“I guess I have a concussion then.”

“You should rest then.” Castiel suggests, but while his new position is unarguable more comfortable, it is far from being actually comfortable. The stone is cold in his back and the uneven edges dig into his back. “Concussions can cause some severe damage.”

“What’s the point?” Dean sighs, and Castiel can’t stand the weariness in his voice. “I’ll be dead in what, two days? I’d rather find a way out of here than rest.”

“And exactly how are you going to do that, when you can’t even think straight?”

“I-“

“Don’t argue with a doctor Dean, rest.” Castiel has to focus to keep the tremble out of his voice. He wished he shared Dean’s confidence, but he doesn’t see a way out of their situation. If his assumption is correct, they have slept approximately through the night, so that means there is only two days left before the culmination. And it is likely that Castiel is now also on the event schedule. But it’s not his life he is worried for.

“You have a concussion, Dean.” Castiel says softly, “thinking will only increase your headache. And potentially put you at risk of a seizure.”

Castiel can’t help but think it’s all pointless anyway. He wants to be selfish; he wants Dean to stay awake and keep him company, but being selfish and irresponsible has brought them here. If Dean really has a concussion; he needs rest.

“And what good will rest do me?” Dean asks. Castiel attempts to interject, but Dean speaks right over him. “If I don’t think of a plan of getting out of here, I’ll die for sure. So I’d rather risk a seizure and find a way out of here, instead of facing certain death because I took my beauty sleep.

“A concussion affects your concentration and focus, Dean.”

“So what?” Dean snaps. “Do you have the slightest idea how to get out of here? Because if you do, I would be happy to hear it.” Castiel has nothing and Dean knows that. “Look Cas, I’m not saying you are incompetent, you are far from it, but we don’t have forever and I’m not going to die because I didn’t even try. You’ll just have to keep me on track.”

Maybe he’s right. “Okay.” Castiel allows and Dean’s sigh is audible. “Maybe this isn’t even a concussion, I could be wrong.” Castiel admits and Dean exhales into a soft chuckle.

“Let’s toss some ideas.”

“Okay.”

* * *

 

“I don’t think we can set fire to the Stadium.” Castiel says, albeit a bit regretful. Setting fire to the Stadium, for real this time, sounds rather promising. Unfortunately, it is unachievable. But so are all their other ‘plans’.

“Can’t we just dig ourselves out of here? I mean this wall is already crumbling.” Castiel just groans noncommittally, there is no need to point out the obvious fact to Dean that they are deep underground. And the other obvious fact that digging through stone with bare hands takes a while, to say the least.

Castiel has a finger wedged through the tiny crack and the tip of it just barely grazes against Dean’s on the other side. It’s little and his arm is heavy, but he won’t let go of this little contact. It’s almost as if he can feel Dean’s warmth through the wall.

“This is going nowhere.” Dean points out, superfluously.

“You should rest.” Castiel responds automatically, but Dean just snorts.

“Don’t even start it Cas. Even if we don’t think up a plan, I’d rather spend my time with you, conscious and alert. And you should realize how much that means, I don’t do sappy often.”

“What was that Dean? I didn’t quite catch the middle part.” Castiel grins to himself. It’s not much, but somehow he feels marginally lighter.

“You little shit.” Dean’s voice is light with the smirk that Castiel can envision on his lips, just the right side of playful. “I’ll never tell you I love you again. You lost that privilege.” There’s fondness in his voice, a warmth that tells Castiel exactly how little he means those words. It’s strange. He’s cold and uncomfortable, the stone wall digging into his back and he will most likely die in less than two days, but he feels strangely content. At least he’s going to die with Dean.

And that thought shouldn’t feel as peaceful as it does.

“I didn’t mean it, you know.” Dean suddenly says and Castiel perks up. He had been drifting off, without noticing. “I will never stop telling you. I mean even if we die here, I’ll at least tell you that I love you one more time.”

Castiel feels a strange tug in his heart. He’s warmed; moved by the sentiment, but he can’t deny the pain that comes with it. He doesn’t want to think about the end, he wants to live in this moment forever. As imperfect as it is, it might be his last moment of peace with Dean.

A moment that gets shattered only moments later. Heavy footsteps fall on the floor outside their doors and they fall silent. Dean pulls back his finger and Castiel drops his hand shortly after. He is too tired to move, he feels a bone deep exhaustion; now that reality comes crashing back. The steps halt in front of one of their doors - Castiel can’t tell which, but when nothing happens in his cell, he assumes they must be there to see Dean.

There’s silence for a while, but then he can hear Dean’s voice again, fainter; he’s no longer talking through the crack. “You come in hordes now? Should I feel honored?” Castiel feels strangely proud at Dean’s defiance - even now - but it quickly vanishes when he hears the following thud and Dean’s pained groan.

He doesn’t hear the reply; they’re too far away from the crack and Castiel feels too heavy and too exhausted to move closer again.

“Careful, you’re going to break something. Don’t want to damage the merchandise.” Dean taunts and thankfully, this time his reward isn’t violence. Castiel closes his eyes, wishing desperately to be somewhere else with Dean, somewhere safe, where no one can harm them. It feels terrible to be this helpless. But then something Dean has said catches with his mind and Castiel’s eyes snap open.

“Leave him out of it.” Dean suddenly snaps, louder, voice dripping with malice that sounds terribly fake to Castiel’s ears. “He has nothing to do with it. I forced him to do it; he’s innocent.” Dean’s voice turns pleading, begging almost and Castiel’s heart clenches painfully. He doesn’t need to guess to know who he’s talking about.

“Shut up.” A voice snaps, loud enough for Castiel to hear this time.

“Fuck you, assholes. This has never concerned him. Just because you sick bastards-“

There’s a whipping sound, like leather meeting flesh and Dean’s voice cuts off abruptly. Someone yells something again, but Castiel is too horrified to listen. And then Dean screams. Castiel scrambles to his feet; he stumbles and almost falls but he makes it to the door. He bangs his fists against the worn wood, as hard as he can, not caring that the splinters bury into his skin. He screams and shouts until his throat feels sore, and then finally - thankfully - the door pushes open and against him and Castiel falls backwards on his ass.

But it’s open now, and that is all he needed.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The man - a guard - asks with a threatening glare, but the man behind him looks official, probably an employee of the Master and Castiel looks at him when he talks.

“Please, listen to me. I am a doctor and I need to take care of the man in the adjacent cell.” It’s not the right thing to say, because the man looks at him with contempt and makes a move to leave. “Wait.” Castiel urges, scrambling to his knees, but the guard stops him with another glare. “You need my help.” The man hesitates and Castiel presses on. “He needs to be able to perform properly, or the Master will be disappointed, right? I can fix him up for you, make sure he doesn’t fail you.”

“Nice try.” The man snarls, face contemptuous. “You’ve pulled that spiel before.”

“That may be so.” Castiel tries his hardest to stay calm, but all he wants to do is slam his fists into the man’s face. “But that doesn’t change that it still holds true. You need that man alive and in relative good shape, and I can provide that for you. Whatever you did to him, it’s severe, isn’t it?”

“I could just get another doctor.” The man shrugs, but Castiel can see that he’s already crumbling.

“And who will pay for that?” Castiel asks, challenging, and he can see the man giving in.

“Fine.” He snaps. “Put them in a cell together. And get them some food and water.” He orders, not sparing the guard another glance, before he leaves, heels clicking on the stone floor. The relief that floods Castiel is immense.

The guard doesn’t attempt to help him when Castiel pulls himself to his feet, but maybe that’s for the best. Castiel can gladly live without that kind of help, even though his gait is more a stagger than a walk. There’s nothing in his cell other than moldy straw, so Castiel doesn’t waste much time.

The door to Dean’s cell is open, two guards waiting outside and then Castiel is unceremoniously shoved inside. Dean sits on the floor, back to the wall, similar as Castiel had been. He has his head tilted back against the wall, skin strewn with fresh blood. Castiel only gets a cursory view though, before the door falls shut behind him and they are blanketed in darkness again. But Dean seems to be alright mostly, and that is a good thing.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice is hoarse, the strain evident, but there’s also a note of hope .

“Yes.” Castiel reaches out his arms and takes a very careful step forward, and then another, until his foot gently bumps against something soft.

“Ouch.” Dean comments drily.

“Apologies.” Castiel says sincerely, and crouches down carefully. Dean laughs. Shapes peel themselves out of the shadows slowly, and Castiel can make out the faint outlines of Dean. Dean doesn’t move to help him, and Castiel assumes that he just is as newly blinded as him.

“What did they do to you?” Castiel asks gently when he’s lowered himself to his knees, sitting in front of Dean. His vision gets clearer by the second and he can make out the contours of Dean’s face now. There are darker patches on his skin, where the blood has matted and Castiel wishes he had some clearer sight to assess the damage. He’s so lost in his examination that he misses at first the absence of an answer.

“Dean.” He prompts and Dean sighs.

“Nothing, Cas.” He says, but there is a tremble in his voice that has Castiel’s stomach clench with worry. Something is wrong. Dean’s head is still tilted back, and he hasn’t attempted to move it yet.

“Dean.” Castiel can hear the panic in his own voice and he winces inwardly as Dean flinches at the sound. “You need to tell me, or I can’t help you.”

“I don’t think there is anything you can do.” Dean finally says, and there is new note to his voice, one that has Castiel’s stomach drop into the range of his knees; desperate and hollow. Castiel reaches out to touch Dean’s arm; he then slides his hand down to Dean’s, only to find his fingers knotted into a tight fist. Dean sucks in a sharp breath, more a gasp really, and Castiel realizes with a lurch to his stomach that Dean is shaking.

“What is wrong Dean?” Castiel tries again, but he’s shaking too now, in fear of something he doesn’t understand, because Dean is certainly not alright. But before Dean can answer, the door bangs open and light falls into the cell. This time, Castiel gets more than just a short glance of Dean, and it’s mostly thanks to his years in the medical field that the sight doesn’t have him throw up on the spot.

And it’s also his years of medical experience that have him snap into autopilot. He turns around to the pair of guards that flank the door, ignoring the third one who carries in a tray with two bowls on it. “Bring me hot water, clean bandages and some light.” Castiel orders, falling back on a voice he hadn’t used in years. The command has both snap to attention, but they’re hesitating so Castiel follows up with a barked “Now.” As superficial as it had been, they have received military drilling and the commanding tone proves effective.

Castiel’s hands are steady when he inspects the water, but he already knows that he can’t use it. The risk of infection is too high. But then again, in these circumstances, it would be a miracle to dodge infection, either way. Dean has done it once, but he can’t hope that they’ll be this lucky again. So he has to wait until the other two return.

“Is it really that bad?” Dean is attempting a joke, but it comes out rather weak. The pain is evident in his voice now and his breathing has become shallow. Castiel fears that he’s going into shock. It’s rather impressive actually that he hasn’t so far.

“What do you think?” Castiel asks, attempting to sound casual, but failing miserably. Dean simply groans in reply.

“It hurts like a bitch. Damn those fuckers, to go after the eye.” Dean launches into a tirade of rather colorful curses and Castiel exhales a breath of relief. No shock then. His face is matted with blood, but the left side is completely covered in it. Castiel can barely make out the deep gash that runs from his brow to his cheek - right through the eye. He can still hear the scream Dean let out earlier and the sound of whatever it was that inflicted this wound.

There’s little hope for the eye, the gash is too deep. The wound is still bleeding though, and that means there’s a good chance all the dirt has cleared out. The third guard has put down his tray in the meantime and is now watching them suspiciously, but Castiel simply ignores him.

The other two finally return right after Castiel has coaxed Dean to move his head to the side so Castiel has better access to it. Dean’s face is a grimace of pain, but he tries to smile at Castiel nevertheless. Castiel feels a strange mixture of the detachment he always falls in when handling a crisis, and a torn feeling in his heart at Dean’s insistence to console him. Part of him simply wants to cry.

Castiel rips off a piece of bandage to clean the wound, carefully. The guards thankfully have left right after delivering the things, leaving a guttering tallow lamp behind, barely enough to light what his hands are doing. Castiel uses the hot - it barely deserves that description - water, it’s not much use for anything else. Dean has his teeth locked together and his hands are clenched tight at his side, but he doesn’t make any sounds, when Castiel dabs away the blood.

The eye is closed, but the lid is cleanly cut through, a clear liquid has mixed in with the blood, beads of it still cling to Dean’s eyelashes. He would try and open the lids to clean out the mess inside, but with the lack of equipment he has at hand, that would only make it worse.

”It’s gone, isn’t it?” Dean asks, voice carefully bland but Castiel can hear the pain through it. He doesn’t have to ask to know what Dean is referring to.

“Yes.” Castiel says simply. There is no point in lying. Not when it’s this severe. He wraps the bandage around Dean’s head, after he cleaned the area around his split brow. The wound he stitched up not so long ago on that exact same eyebrow is a raised red line, now intersecting with the new wound on Dean’s face.

He’s been holding back his emotions, mostly, for the time he needed to fix up Dean, but he can feel the tremble of rage creep into his hands and he has to force a deep breath to keep calm and finish. “Where else did they hit you?” He asks once the bandage is wrapped tightly. He had to make a makeshift compress out of some folded bandages, and now he has only around a meter left. But he can always tear his shirt into more if necessary.

Dean shrugs, trying on a smile but it’s tired. “Torso mostly. I think they were pissed because of their dead comrades.”

“That wasn’t you.” Castiel says quietly, the anger evaporated with nothing to fuel it now. Dean shrugs again.

“I’d rather have it like this.”

“I’m sorry.” Castiel looks down at his hands, covered with blood and trembling. They stay silent for a while, until Dean sighs and reaches down to take Castiel’s hand in his.

“We should eat something.” He suggests, but he makes no attempt to move. Castiel looks to the abandoned tray; two bowls, one with water and one with some indefinable grey something that might be soup, or could be cement. It’s hard to say. They also forgot to include a spoon so Castiel has no other choice but to scoop it up with his hands and test-taste it.

“I’m not going to eat that.” Dean declares after one glance. He sounds weary and tired, but there’s a smile curling on his lips and that has to be something. How he’s been able to function after what just happened, is beyond Castiel. But he’s also pretty impressed.

“It’s not bad.” Castiel says after licking his fingers clean. To be honest, he tastes more of the sweat and grime on his fingers than whatever that stuff is.

“Really?”

“No.” Castiel watches as the gray slush drops down from his finger tips. “It tastes like nothing. I am not sure about its nutritional value either.” Dean chuckles softly and his fingers close around Castiel’s wrist.

“Stop worrying all the time.” He lifts up Castiel’s hand and licks of the gray mess from his fingers.

“Are you trying to seduce me?” Castiel can’t help the fond smile as he watches Dean. In any other situation this would probably have his blood boiling with arousal, but right now he’s not in the mood. Still, it fills him with warmth to see Dean like this, relaxed, despite his injuries.

“Is it working?” Dean dips his own fingers into the bowl, swirling it around once before he pulls it out.

“No.” Castiel smiles and Dean snorts.

“It tastes better from you.” Dean announces after he licked his finger clean. Castiel ducks his head and smiles again. The smile falls from his lips after only a few moments though. This peace, however feeble it is, won’t last and then they’re both going to die. Dean lets out a heavy sigh and lets his head fall back against the wall.

“I’m tired.” He says with a sudden heaviness to his voice. “Can we rest now?”

Castiel puts the bowl back on the tray and shoves it to the side to give them more space. “Yes.” He allows and scoots over to sit next to Dean. Dean’s head falls to the side to rest against Castiel’s and he closes his eye.

“Good.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being late, life got in the way

Castiel wakes up, because Dean is thrashing in his sleep. It takes him a moment to gather his bearings, to remember why he’s slouched against a cold stone wall, but then it all comes rushing back. Dean is soaked wet with sweat, He’s panting, breath coming in ragged instants. His face is a tight grimace, and fresh blood has seeped through the bandage around his eyes. For a moment Castiel fears that it’s a fever, but a temperature check reveals that Dean is cold rather than hot.

But still, Dean obviously has a bad dream, and the way he’s thrashing, he might accidentally upset his wound. Not to mention that rapid head movement doesn’t exactly help with a maybe-concussion. Castiel tries to wake Dean, but whatever he is dreaming; it has him deep in its clutches.

“Don’t touch me.” Dean growls and Castiel flinches back, until he realizes that Dean hadn’t been talking to him. But he hesitates nevertheless, Dean obviously doesn’t want to be touched, and while Castiel means him no harm, he doesn’t want to make his dream worse either.

And then Dean’s hand suddenly grasps on to Castiel’s arm, a painful vise, as his body convulses once. Dean’s eyes snap open and for a moment there is nothing but panic and fear in them, before he realizes his surroundings. He slumps back against the wall with a groan, grip loosening on Castiel’s arm. “Damn it.” He groans.

Castiel relaxes slightly, Dean seems fine so far. He’s still sweat-soaked and that could become a problem, but the blood has dried on his bandage, and that means the wound has stopped bleeding. Castiel decides to change the dressings later.

“Dean?” He asks softly and Dean looks up at him.

“I’m fine.” Dean’s voice is rough and his expression is a pained one, but there is nothing Castiel can do about that. “Just a nightmare.” He grimaces and leans his head back against the wall. “Hadn’t one in quite a while.” He lifts up his hand and gently probes a finger against the bandage, wincing slightly. “I dreamed a dog was gnawing my eye out.”

“That sounds unpleasant.”

Dean snorts and drops his hand. “Believe me, unpleasant doesn’t begin to cover it.” Castiel settles back against the wall, even though his body is more than complaining by now. His legs are cramped and his lower back is nothing but pain, not to mention the ache in his shoulders. He just wants to stretch out on a flat surface for a while, even the ground would be fine. But space in the cell, with two people especially, is limited, and he’s not yet desperate enough to lie down on the soiled straw that covers this floor as well.

He doesn’t want to think about the moment when he’ll have to pee for the first time.

“Do you want some water?” He asks, looking over to where the tray still stands on the ground. Dean just nods and Castiel leans over to pick up the bowl with water. It’s stale and Castiel is suddenly glad that it’s dark and he doesn’t have to see the filth undoubtedly swimming in it, after standing in this piss hole for so long. The tallow lamp has guttered out sometime when they were sleeping, so all that’s left is what little light manages to fall in through the cracks in the door.

Castiel lifts the bowl and helps Dean take a few sips, before he drinks some himself. “Hungry?” He asks, eyeing the bowl with grey mush with contempt. Dean just shakes his head. “Later,” he mouths and puts the bowl away.

Now’s as good as any, so Castiel starts to pull his shirt over his head. The cold so far has been bearable, especially with Dean so close, but without a shirt it will be uncomfortable. And Castiel can’t help the sinking feeling that this is all very much pointless. It doesn’t matter if Dean’s wound isn’t properly dressed, it doesn’t matter if he gets sick or not. They’ll die soon anyway, and that thought is almost crippling. But they are not dead yet, and as long as they’re alive, there is hope.

“What are you doing?” Dean asks, startled.

“Redressing your wound.” Castiel explains calmly and starts ripping up his shirt. Dean reaches up to stop him but one glance from Castiel has his hands fall down ineffectively. There’s a short moment of pain when Castiel pulls the soiled bandages away from the eye, but at least the wound seems to be clean. It’s hard to tell with the lack of light. He quickly wraps the new bandage and rips of the parts that are soiled from the old ones. Dean doesn’t ask when Castiel carefully folds the clean parts and puts them on the tray, but he hums a noncommittal sound that could have been approval. He then uses the rest of his shirt to change the wrapping on his neck. The wound has scabbed cleanly over, but the skin around is still sensitive and Castiel wishes he could actually see what he’s doing. At least the wound doesn’t emit any perceivable heat so hopefully that means it’s clean.

It’s not long after that their peace is - yet again - disturbed by footfalls outside of the door. This time though, it’s Zachariah. He’s flanked by two guards, and judging by the self-satisfied smirk on his face, this is the highlight of his day. There are purple bruises in the shape of fingers on his neck, and Castiel can’t prevent the short burst of satisfaction he feels at the sight. He only wished he had pressed harder. The feeling dies the moment Zachariah opens his mouth, though.

“Well, what does your freedom taste like?” He sneers, letting his eye roam over their crouching forms. Castiel doesn’t like the way his eyes light up when he sees the bandage on Dean’ face, nor does he appreciate the look of disdain he himself gathers as Zachariah looks at his naked upper body. Dean tenses next to him.

“The Master was very displeased when he heard from your little… episode.” Zachariah smirks as if he’d just made some joke, he alone is privy to. Castiel feels sharp hatred coiling in his gut, bitter and powerless. “I tried to convince him that you were just misguided, but alas, he wants your blood.” He is positively beaming, and Castiel doesn’t believe for a second that Zachariah ever voiced something in his favor.

“Shut it.” Dean snaps, but it sounds tired with no real bite behind it. Zachariah must have noticed too, because his grin turns even wider, a feat Castiel didn’t think was possible.

“What is it Dean? Didn’t take you for such a coward.”

“Takes one to see one.” Dean mutters and the grin falls from Zachariah’s face.

“What do you want Zachariah?” Castiel asks, before things can get out of hand. He doesn’t’ want to see what Zachariah is going to do if Dean provokes him any further. Zachariah claps his hand behind his back, suddenly very eager to unload whatever he’s come here to tell.

“I’ve come here personally, to inform you that you’re having the honor to perform during the culmination Games tomorrow.” He’s smiling benevolently at Dean, as though he just delivered them outstandingly great news. “The Master wishes you to face off against his most renowned Fighter, he’s sure you can stand your ground.” Zachariah’s eyes flick up and down Dean’s form, and there is a distinct curl to his mouth that indicates that he takes personal pleasure in this decision.

“I’m afraid he will be disappointed.” He sneers, “But the public likes to see a butchering as much as a fair fight, so either way, it’s a win.” Castiel closes his eyes, has to or he might have tried to attack Zachariah. He had expected it, but hearing it like this, from Zachariah who couldn’t have been happier about it, makes something sharp and cold coil in his stomach. But Zachariah isn’t finished yet.

“As for you.” Zachariah continues and looks at Castiel. “You get a front seat and the Master has decreed you’ll be the one to collect his body.” Zachariah’s smirk widens and the look in his eyes is almost manic. “He’s gracefully decided to spare your life, but you’ll be a Stadium slave. I personally recommended entertainment, but we shall see how you perform.”

Dean makes an aborted sound at the back of his throat, a strangled growl of rage and then he’s suddenly moving forward. He lunges his fist, but Zachariah jumps back surprisingly quick and Dean’s momentum is abruptly stopped when the chains around his ankles pull tight. Castiel hadn’t even realized that they had been there.

“You bastard.” Dean growls as he slumps back on his heels.

The look of satisfaction had vanished from Zachariah’s face, wiped out by a moment of fear, but he’s quickly recovering. Castiel sees the movement from his angle before Dean does, and he reacts without thinking. He pushes himself up and forward, falling into Zachariah’s arm, right as he is about to hit Dean.

“Don’t you dare lay a hand on him.” Castiel snarls, digging his fingers into the meat of Zachariah’s arm for good measure. Part of him feels appalled of what he’s been reduced to, fighting the guards the other day, had reminded him of how it used to be, the training he had been put through and the few times he had to defend himself. But he’s not a soldier, he’s a healer, and now he can’t even take proper care of Dean. The frustration and anger boils up in his gut and he rams his teeth into Zachariah’s arm in a helpless attempt to inflict pain.

The guards have to pry him off and he gets a few hits in the face for his troubles. Dean shouts insults at them, but the whole fight had taken place out of his range.

“Maybe I should tell the Master about this.” Zachariah spits out, pressing a hand on the bite wound on his arm. When he lifts the hand up it comes away bloody. “You will die for this.” He’s fuming and for a moment Castiel fears he’s going to kill them right there, but he simply whips around and stomps out of the cell, leaving them in darkness once again.

Castiel groans, probing the new bruises on his face and torso, relieved to find that albeit painful, they are in no way dangerous or life threatening. Even though at this point, it shouldn’t even matter anymore.

“Damn, that was way hotter than it has every right to be.” Dean says into the ensuing silence and Castiel stares at him incredulously. Dean’s grin is barely visible; Castiel’s eyes haven’t yet readjusted to the dark. But Dean just shrugs, and Castiel can’t help himself, his lips curl into a smile. It’s relieving in a way Castiel would have never expected. They’re out of hope and they will die tomorrow (Castiel has no doubt that Zachariah will make truth of his promise), but right now, he feels like all that matters is this moment.

“No really,” Dean continues after a while. “That was freaking hot.” Dean sits back against the wall, but he keeps his eyes on Castiel. “You should do that more often, it distracts me from the pain.” He grins crookedly, lifting his arm to indicate Castiel come closer. “You must be cold.” He doesn’t even try to conceal the lewd nature of his grin and when Castiel rolls his eyes fondly, Dean waggles his eyebrows. He shouldn’t be as surprised that Dean is inappropriate even in a situation like this.

It is their last day together after all.

Dean is warm against him and Castiel suddenly realizes how cold he actually is. He wraps his arms around himself, but it does little to warm him, until Dean turns slightly and pulls him in against his chest. Castiel closes his eyes and just breathes in Dean’s scent; it’s a mixture of day old sweat and Dean’s own scent, but right now everything remotely Dean would be a comfort.

“So last night on earth, what do you want to do?” Dean asks, casually, but Castiel hasn’t forgotten his words from earlier, a low heat still simmering in his blood.

“You.” He answers simply, and after a pause that lasts way longer than it should be, Dean laughs.

“That’s a man to my taste.” He murmurs, but doesn’t make a move. He just keeps holding Castiel, lips pressed against the top of his head. Castiel would take matters into his own hands, but he senses that there’s something Dean is working up to. So he waits, breathing in Dean and just basking in the warmth of his presence.

“I’d be honored.” Dean says eventually, a soft form of reverence in his voice. Castiel suddenly remembers what Dean had said the day before. This just sounds like a confession.

Castiel smiles to himself for a moment before he tilts his head and pulls Dean into a kiss. It’s a slow kiss, as reverent as Dean’s words, and Castiel is painfully aware of the bandage that obscures half of Dean’s face. Dean lets out a shaky exhale of breath and maybe he had been right. He seems more relaxed now, the lines around his good eyes less prominent, so maybe this is distracting him from the pain.

The least they can do is distract each other from their fates.

Castiel moves up closer into Dean’s space, curling his hand at the back of Dean’s neck and deepens the kiss. He can feel the tension seep out of Dean’s body, slowly but inevitably. Dean’s arms tighten around Castiel and he shifts their position slightly so Castiel comes to kneel over Dean’s legs. Dean can’t move much from his position, the chains holding his legs in place, so it’s up to Castiel.

Dean’s fingers are soft on his skin, warm and insistent and Castiel might just get crazy with the heat it ignites in his veins. He wants Dean, may this be their last time, he wants Dean so badly, he can hardly breathe. Castiel slips his hands under Dean’s shirt, feels the shivers that run through Dean’s body at the touch, searches for the thin lines on his lower back, even though he can’t feel them. Dean mirrors him, splays his hands on Castiel’s lower back, while their mouths keep working against each other, languid and slow.

It’s maddening in a way; how they can be so close and yet sometimes it feels like it’s not enough. Dean tilts his head to mouth at Castiel’s jar, gently, with the same reverence he used earlier and Castiel suddenly feels overwhelmed by his emotions. He had never expected something like this when Dean was brought in to his infirmary, had never even thought it possible, that one single person could have this importance to him. And that this one person would feel the same about him.

A moan falls from his lips and he can feel Dean’s mouth curl into a smile. The both of them didn’t shave in a while so the stubble on Dean’s jaw isn’t so much rough as it is soft. Castiel trails his hand up Dean’s torso, pushing his shirt up along the way. Dean shudders softly under his touch. Castiel can feel the slight ridges of wounds and the tell tale heat radiated by his bruises. He can feel every minute tremble when he drags a finger over an injury, but he doesn’t stop. Dean sighs softly when Castiel nudges a finger against his nipple, moving his hands up and to Dean’s shoulders.

The skin on his back is covered with little hills, raised skin, carved by countless whip lashings, and Castiel splays his hands out again, pressing softly. Dean’s breath is coming faster now and he has wandered up to Castiel’s ear with his mouth. He’s just playing lightly with his earlobe, flicking out his tongue every now and then, but Castiel already has a hard time focusing.

Castiel shifts slightly, trying to relief some of the pressure that has built in his lower body. He has been uncomfortably hard for quite a while now, and -as he discovers now - so has Dean. Dean’s head falls back and he lets out a strangled moan when Castiel’s thigh presses against his erection and Castiel can’t help the satisfied smirk that plays on his lips.

He rubs his thumbs in circles over Dean’s back as he carefully moves his whole body to keep rubbing against Dean’s erection. Dean’s hands fall to Castiel’s hips and he gently guides his motions, panting heavily, but keeping glancing up at Castiel from under his eye lashes. It’s like a whole new level of seduction.

Castiel’s own erection is glaringly neglected, but he can’t find a fiber in his body that cares right now. All he cares about is Dean, and the way his fingers dig into Castiel’s hip, urging him on even further. Dean’s skin is covered in sweat, and every time Castiel moves down, his body is wrecked by one of those small moans that Dean always tries to swallow back but that escape regardless. Castiel leans slightly forward to nip at Dean’s jaw, a gentle graze that has Dean dissolve into a shudder.

“Cas.” He groans, fingers tightening even more. His breath is shaky and Castiel can tell that he has a hard time keeping it together. “Let me…” His voice trails off, but that doesn’t stop his hand from reaching down. Castiel gasps, body sagging forward against Dean, when Dean’s hand closes around the bulge in his pants.

Dean’s mouth is curling into a smile; Castiel can feel it as Dean’s face presses into his hairline. Castiel slides back slightly, clearing access to the bulge in Dean’s pants. He drags a finger along the hard line of Dean’s penis, sending another wave of shudders through his body. Dean retaliates by tightening his grip on Castiel’s bulge, causing him to sag even more against Dean. They’re close now, as close as they can get and Castiel impatiently tugs at the button on Dean’s pants. Dean catches his drift, flicking open Castiel’s pants with an ease that would frustrate Castiel if it didn’t blissfully free his trapped erection.

“Someone’s eager.” Dean jokes, but his voice is hoarse and heavy with lust.

“So are you.” Castiel retorts and smirks when Dean’s whole body just sighs the moment his penis is freed. Dean chuckle softly and that’s about the only warning Castiel gets before Dean closes his hand around both their erections. The sound that comes out of Castiel’s mouth is something between a moan and a groan and for a moment he can’t focus on anything else but the pleasure coursing through his body. Dean’s hand is a hot and constant pressure against his shaft, combined with the drag of skin on skin it’s almost enough to make Castiel lose his control right there. Bu he holds on, wants to drag this out as much as possible until they’re both broken up into pieces.

Castiel’s hands cling to Dean’s shoulders as he keeps fisting them. They’re eyes are locked together and Castiel wishes with a sudden desperate intensity that he would just drown in that endless green. It almost seems like all the color from his destroyed eye has bled into the remaining one. Castiel’s world is spinning, faster and faster until his only fixed point is Dean and then everything seems to crash together when the pressure that has relentlessly built up finally releases.

He actually has to close his eyes, the intensity is too much. The following silence is only interrupted by both their heavy breathings, and Castiel notes absently how they both seem to breathe in sync. Even in a state where he barely is in control of himself - leaning heavily against Dean - he automatically adjusts himself to him.

Dean is smiling, blissfully with a hint of exhaustion. He must have come at some point around the time Castiel was knocked out by his own orgasm, and now his hand is one sticky mess, but that doesn’t negate the content delight he’s radiating.

But reality settles in sooner than he would have wanted, and Castiel allows his body to slide from Dean’s lap. The cold creeps back into his limbs and he quickly pulls up his pants, not bothering much with what little mess sticks to his penis. Dean rubs his hand clean on the wall and quickly follows suit, but Castiel allows him to pull him in once again. Neither says a word, but it isn’t necessary. They both knew that this would be their last time, and somehow with that act, all has been said and done.

If Castiel has one regret than it’s that it has to end like this. It has gone unspoken between them that there is nothing left they can do. They’re out of plans, out of options, out of time. Castiel would gladly spend the rest of his hours with Dean to find a solution, a means of escape, but he knows too well that it is pointless. He can’t fight his way out of here, he is unarmed and the guards are extra careful, and that is if he could even gather the strength to try. They had their chance and they missed it, and the thing that hurts the most is not that he will die, but that failed to save Dean.

Dean, who only wanted to protect his family. Dean, who has become his world. Dean who deserves to live forever.

And it’s in that silence, cast in shadows and ill fate that Castiel allows the tears to fall.

And he keeps clinging to the improbable hope that maybe tomorrow will bring a new hope.


	15. Chapter 15

They don’t get the luxury to wake up on their own the next day. Castiel assumes it is the next day, because he’s startled awake by the door banging open. It’s hard to keep track of time down here, especially when Castiel doesn’t know at what point in time he woke up the first time. They both fell asleep at some point yesterday, and he estimates it to have been around late evening.

It doesn’t really matter though.

He’s roughly pulled up by his shoulder and the guard makes sure to restrict his arms, not caring that the action has Castiel gasp out in pain. His bruises complain loudly and Castiel has to give in without a fight. Two others pull up Dean while a fourth crouches down to undo the cuffs around his ankles. On their way out Castiel sees that the other cell doors are all open, they must be the last ones to be collected.

No one talks as they get dragged through the hallways and damp corridors. Castiel tries feebly to struggle against his hold, but his guard merely twists his arm up, effectively ceasing all his resistance. Dean is slumped in the arms of his guard. He looks tired and pale in the light of the torches, and there’s a thin sheet of sweat covering his brow. The bandage on his face is clean though, no blood has seeped through. Not that it would really matter at this point.

Castiel feels a strange sort of tiredness. He keeps going through different scenarios, how he’s going to break out of his captor’s grip, how he’s going to free Dean and giving him the time he needs to escape. But in the end, he does none of that. His shoulder is still protesting from the earlier twist and he simply doesn’t have the strength. Dean can barely stand on his own two feet, let alone make a run for it. If there is any chance of getting out of here, it doesn’t lie in force. They are surrounded by armed guards, and deep down Castiel knows that there is no way out of it. That doesn’t keep his mind from running though.

They reach a part of the Stadium Castiel has barely ever seen. The quarters of the Fighters lie close to the white Marble arena, along with their training grounds. Most Fighters had been allowed to leave and participate in the festivities, but Castiel knows from experience that a few of them are as much prisoners as he and Dean are. Fighting is an honor and the Overseer usually has no difficulties to find willing Fighters. Even if that means dying on the white Marble. The Fighters are well cared for, and many sign up to support their families, but there are also a few who are forced to fight against their will, slaves, debtors, and some criminals who had chosen the Marble of a death sentence. Which ultimately leads up to the same. The hope to survive the minimum five years is favorable over definite death.

The room they eventually are dragged in is quite full already. There are two sections, one that looks quite luxurious, with comfortable chairs and benches and drinks and food on small side tables. This part of the room is filled with the Stadium Fighters, men in adorned decorative armors, heavy builds and an air of arrogance. Three women sit at a sectioned off cushioned bench in the corner, their dresses are silk and leave little to the imagination.

It used to annoy Castiel, how blatantly spoiled some of the Fighters were. So much money gets wasted on their luxurious needs, alcohol, drugs and whores in the times they weren’t required to fight and expensively imported delicacies for the times they were. Under the old Overseer it hadn’t mattered that much, he spared enough money to keep Castiel well equipped. And then Zachariah came and Castiel had to improvise with bad equipment just to keep these very same men alive. Some of them remembered his services and sent him gifts, but mostly he had worked in the shadows. Forgotten until he was needed.

He didn’t mind; he hadn’t done this for credits, but as a doctor he wanted to give his patients the best care possible, and for that, the Overseer didn’t have the money.

He feels some of the Fighters eyes on him, as he and Dean get escorted to the second part of the room. He had treated almost each and every one of them, and at least some acknowledge his presence. There is no judgment there, while most are here willingly, few have a true choice in it. People are poor after all, and as luxurious as this life was, it is always short.

The second section is separated by a line of bars, metal and rusty, to keep those in line who would otherwise try and make a break for it. It is smaller and lacks any of the luxuries presented in the other room. There is one wooden bench along the wall, hard and worn. The occupants of the prison are all in comparably bad shape, dirty and sun-depraved. They stare at the new arrivals out from sunken eyes, watching impassively as Dean gets shoved in first and then Castiel closely after. These are the criminals scheduled to be executed today, carted together from all over the Empire.

They are a sorry lot, but Castiel feels little pity. For one, they are mostly murderers and rapists, and second, they aren’t his priority; Dean is. The door falls shut behind them with an ominous sound. Some of the inhabitants sneer at the guards, one even goes so far as to spit on the ground, but neither of the guards pay them any mind. Castiel stays close to Dean, eyeing the people around them suspiciously, but none of them makes any attempt to come close to them.

Dean sighs heavily next to him. He doesn’t look so good, but he gives Castiel a weak smile. The bench is fully occupied, so Castiel guides Dean to the corner, where wall meets bars and sits down with him. The floor is barely more comfortable than the damp stone floor in their cell, if only by merit of being clean, thus Castiel can relax slightly more.

“So when does this party start?” Dean throws the question out into the room, a cocky grin on his lips. Castiel can tell that it’s a façade, he’s playing, but it’s one that holds steady under the scrutiny of the others. It reminds him of the first time they met, back when Castiel still thought nothing could scare Dean. He doesn’t so much sit as lounge in his position, one leg stretched out, the other knee pulled up to function as a resting place for his arm. The bandage actually serves to make him look intimidating and Castiel isn’t surprised that all eyes are on Dean. Even those in the other part of the room. Even the girls glance at him with raised eyebrows.

But none of it reaches Dean’s eyes; they look tired and even the tiniest bit afraid. Castiel finds his hand at his side and squeezes it, away from all the prying eyes.

“Soon enough.” One of the men on their side of the fence answers, his eyes are cold and he looks at Dean as if he’s contemplating homicide. “I’ll be sure to watch you go first row princess.” He adds with a sneer.

“Does that mean we get to watch?” Dean asks with a fake cheer in his voice. Castiel closes his eyes and looks away, just for a moment. He understands to some extent that Dean is doing this to protect himself, but that doesn’t make it a good idea to antagonize everyone. And it doesn’t help Castiel to be remembered that he’ll have to watch Dean die.

Dean doesn’t get another reply.

“No really, why haven’t you tried to escape?” Dean suddenly asks, and all the fake bravado is gone just as quickly. He’s serious now; honest, and somehow the man who answered first, a thick burly guy, seems to shrink under his eye. He looks away, ashamed almost.

“It’s impossible.” Another answers; he’s thinner, wiry with a nervous air around him. “A few have tried over the years, but they’ve all been caught.” He laughs mirthlessly. “They’ve been doing this for years, they know all the tricks.” Dean nods, as if he’s just gained some intrinsic knowledge, but there is a sad tilt to his mouth. He looks at Castiel for a moment, deep regret lined into his face as he bows his head. Castiel feels his heart clenching painfully and he squeezes Dean’s hand harder.

“If you fight on the Marble and win, you might get pardoned.” Another adds, sparking a row of consenting murmurs. “It’s a chance at least, better than certain death.”

“Most are willing to take that chance.” A huge lanky man, crouched down onto the too small bench chimes in, eyes staring up under heavy eyelids. “You have to get lucky though. Get a dance with the devils and you’re done for.” He nods towards two men, secluded from the other Fighters on the other side of the bars. Their skin has been painted in a deep dark red and the only clothing they wear is a leather loincloth. The name devil truly is fitting. Castiel remembers hearing of them, but they never actually made it into his infirmary. Which is quite a feat.

“No one comes back from that fight.” Castiel looks back to the two men, feeling a chill run down his spine as one of them meets his eyes. His hair is spiked up with the red paint, fashioned into devil’s horns. The man looks at him with an intensity that almost scares Castiel; he only breaks away when one of the girls walks over to him and whispers something in his ear. He grins, wide and with too many teeth, before he pulls the giggling girl on his lap. Castiel looks away.

He knows that the girl is paid for her services and that she probably has had worse done to her than being used in a room full of people, but that doesn’t mean Castiel has to like it. She’s probably as desperate to feed her family as many of the Fighters are.

An uneasy silence has settled over their part of the room. It’s a strange atmosphere overall. The Fighters are cheerful, busy with their food, their girls and their watered wine, while the men behind the bars are brooding, desperate muttering to themselves and generally struggling with the fate that has been thrust upon them. The so-called hope they had been talking about is glaringly missing. Looking at them it’s hard to remember that they are hardened criminals, murderers and worse. Now, they just seem like cattle herded to their death. But Castiel supposes, he and Dean don’t look that much better.

Dean tries to ignite a conversation a few times, tries to rally them to stand up for themselves, but his pleadings fall on deaf ears. The prisoners have retreated into their own worlds and the Fighters have no reason to pay him any mind. And Castiel, as much as he wants to help, knows that he alone is not enough. So they sit, and they wait.

“I hate this.” Dean snaps at some point, accompanied by an angry fist against the wall, which in turn leads to a pained hiss and a few muffled expletives. Castiel catches Dean’s hand in his and carefully extends the fingers to examine them. The skin around the knuckles is bruised, but otherwise the hand is fine. Dean exhales a long and drawn out sigh and closes his fingers around Castiel’s.

“I’m sorry Cas.” He breathes out, voice soft and with a hint of mellowness Castiel had never heard of him before. “I should have never dragged you in this mess.”

“It’s too late for that.” Castiel says dryly. “Besides, you don’t mean that.”

Dean chuckles softly. “You’re right. It might end soon, but I don’t regret a second of this. At least not on my part.” Dean smiles, and while he still looks tired and beaten up, it also makes him look young all of a sudden. Castiel doesn’t feel like smiling, seeing Dean like this reminds him how limited their time is, but he pulls Dean into a kiss regardless.

It doesn’t last long, only a few seconds before the main door bangs open and a horde of guards pour into the room. Castiel reluctantly pulls back to look at the newcomers, as a sudden flare of panic makes his stomach coil. What if they are here to drag Dean out of his arms and onto the white Marble floor?

There’s an officially looking man with the guards, carrying a scroll and an air of importance that has him wait until the guards have secured everyone’s attention before he speaks. He announces the setup for today, name after name, clustered into groups, pairs, numbered and ordered into a tight schedule. The Fighters don’t react much when their names are called, but every time one of the prisoners is named the person concerned visibly reacts, flinching or even going as far as to wail in agony. And then, it’s finally their turn.

“Battle seven, Michael and Lucifer versus the criminals Castiel and Dean.” Everything that follows after that is lost to Castiel, because his world has just stuttered to a stop. He remembers Zachariah’s threat from the day before and he had hoped that he would make true on it. He couldn’t stand to see Dean die and then continue on living. At this point, facing their end together is more than he could have ever hoped for.

But the truth is, he might have accepted his fate, but he can’t accept that Dean has to die too. Not after they managed to escape, not after he got to see Dean in freedom. He would have gladly died if it meant Dean could walk free. It had always been Dean. He had rebelled against the establishment only for Dean and he would gladly do it again. He isn’t ready to let Dean die. This has never been about him, it had always been Dean.

He doesn’t realize he’s shaking until Dean pulls him in against his chest. Castiel sinks against him, closes his eyes and just feels. Every angle, every curve, everything that makes up Dean until it is carved into his mind. And Dean is shaking just as badly, and Castiel realizes he’s not the only one. So he holds him back just as tightly, until they both have nothing more to offer.

Castiel feels tired and drained, even more than before when he finally pulls back. “Just so you know,” he says hoarsely, resting his hand on Dean’s chin. “The only thing I regret is how it will end.” He smiles. The pain has run its course, and what’s left is a dull sense of acceptance.

“I know.” Dean simply replies, and maybe that’s really it. They’re both going to die, but at least they are together.

The man and the guards have left in the meantime, along with the Fighters for the first battle. And then, someone clears their throat next to them. It’s one of the girls, a young blonde with a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. Castiel wants to snap at her to leave them alone, but she beats him to it.

“Boys,” she smirks. “You just got lucky.”

* * *

 

One after another the Fighters and the prisoners get collected, herded of to face their fates. Sometimes one of the Fighters asks how the previous fight went when the guards come, but mostly it is silent. Most fights are executions after all, there is no doubt about what exactly the end result was.

Castiel clutches the vial in his hands; it’s tiny, but it seems to hold all the hope in the world. Dean has a similar vial, but he has hidden his underneath his shirt. Castiel is too nervous and also lacks a shirt to do the same.

Jo’s - the girl’s -plan is madness, but Castiel is willing to take the risk, if it means that he and Dean get a chance. It’s all a stroke of luck to be honest, an insane stroke of luck. But Castiel can’t help but think that maybe, there is a god after all.

The door opens and a line of guards march in, and Castiel doesn’t need to hear the barked commands of their names to know it’s their turn. He gets up slowly, making sure the vial stays out of sight the whole time. Dean follows and as soon as they both stand he moves his hand to hold on to Castiel’s. Lucifer stands up from his perched seat, the dark haired girl gliding from his lap as she pecks a giggling kiss to his cheek. Somehow Castiel wasn’t surprised to learn that Lucifer and Michael are none other than the Devils, but according to Jo that is a good thing. Michael pays them no mind as he strides through the door, but Lucifer lingers, meeting Castiel’s eyes - again. He nods, once and then he looks to Dean and repeats the gesture, before he walks out behind his partner. They’ll be seeing each other again on the white Marble, and then all pleasantries will be gone.

One of the guards shoves Castiel, and Dean almost punches him, but Castiel’s tightened grip stops him. They exchange a glance and Dean bows his head, eye cast down as they turn to walk out. They are guided into a blank room, an assortment of rusty and sometimes bloody weapons lying around on a rickety table, poor quality, but they are not supposed to hold much in a fight. Castiel remembers one Fighter being brought in after the last Mesmeralias. He had suffered only a small wound after facing off against a criminal, but when they brought him in, he had been delirious with fever. It had been too late, he died hours later, and Castiel had never been able to determine what the cause of the infection was.

Now he knows.

Two of the guards carry crossbows, and there is no doubt they’d use them should they try anything funny. Castiel wonders briefly how many prisoners decided to choose a quick death by crossbow over their ‘chance’ on the white Marble. And he can’t help but wonder if he’d chosen the crossbow if he hadn’t held a small precious vial in his hand.

“We’re not aiming to kill.” One of the men informs them with a cruel smirk. “You’ll get sent out wounded and bleeding without a weapon, so choose wisely.” He looks pointedly at Castiel who had somewhat contemplatively stared at the metal tip aimed at him. Castiel frowns and turns to the weapon’s table, where Dean is busy examining a rusty battle axe.

Castiel doesn’t need to look long, he chooses the least rusty sword he can find. It’s longer than the blade he’s used to, but at this point his skill matters little. Dean abandons the axe and goes for another sword, longer than Castiel’s with a curved edge. They get escorted into the next room, floor covered with stone and one complete side open, aside from another row of metal bars and a bared door. The summer heat drains inside and Castiel can smell the stench of the fights, sweat and blood. A pair is currently engaged in battle, sword clashing against spear under the roar of the spectators.

The Marble floor is glistening in the summer sun, polished to until it reflects light like a mirror and looking at it too long gives Castiel a headache. Dean steps next to him, hand brushing over his arm before their fingers interlace again. No one had bothered to give Castiel another shirt, and for the first time in days, he is glad for it. The heat is overwhelming.

“I told you.” Dean suddenly says, voice barely audible over the clamor outside. One of the Fighters just went down, blood splattering over the otherwise unmarred marble, cheers erupting in the ranks above. “I would say it one last time at the end.” Castiel wants to point out that it’s not the end, but something in Dean’s eyes captivates his tongue. He can’t speak.

“I love you.” Dean is smiling, the most brilliant smile Castiel has ever seen and it’s solely there for Castiel. He leans in and places a gentle kiss on Castiel’s lips, gentle but insistent and Castiel doesn’t hesitate to open up. It tastes like days old and wasted time, but also like sweets and a future he thought already lost.

It doesn’t taste like goodbye.

And then a trumpet is sounded, the blaring sound signaling the end of this fight and the lead-up to another. There’s barely enough time for the Stadium workers to clear the Floor of dirt and blood with brushes, before a guard pulls open the door and an announcer shouts out the specifics of the fight to follow. Castiel gets pulled away from Dean, a guard shoves him unceremoniously out into the glaring hot sun, Dean short on his heels.

So this is it then.

Castiel grips his sword tighter as he walks out into the middle, vial clasped securely behind the hem of his pants, the stares of thousands of eyes bearing down on him. The ranks are full, people from every caste jeering and yelling, erupting into a cacophony of cheers when the two devils walk out onto the Marble. Dean is a reassuring presence next to him, and it goes without question, without any specific communication, that Castiel takes up position at his left side, covering the side that has been blinded.

“I love you too.” Castiel says in the silence that suddenly falls, after the second sound of the trumpet the two devils crouching slightly in their battle stances. The air is vibrating wit tension, the sun beating down relentlessly, sweat already trickling down Castiel’s brow, obscuring what little he’s able to see through the glaring sun reflecting off the stone.

Dean doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t have to. Everything has been said and done between them. Now it’s the time for action.

A swirl of red against glaring white is all the warning Castiel gets before one of the devils - brothers as Jo explained - whirls into his space, and it’s solely thanks to Castiel’s long dormant soldier training that has him raise his sword in time. The strike glances of his blade, the force makes Castiel stumble backwards and he barely regains his footing before the man strikes again. Their blades lock and for a moment Castiel is almost intimately close to his opponent. For a short frightful moment, Castiel wonders if he might have misplaced his trust. What if the devils aren’t in on it, or simply don’t care.

Maybe his hope had been a mere illusion.

But then the man - Lucifer, Castiel realizes - winks at him. It almost gets lost in the spots dancing in front of his eyes, but the message is unmistakably. Castiel feels light all of a sudden. He remembers Jo’s words; ‘drag it out, give them a show. You’ll have to let a bit of blood, but it will be worth it.’ He had been doubtful, but something about Jo had moved him. She believed in what she was doing, and Castiel has no other choice but to believe in her.

It’s Lucifer who breaks their lock, pushing Castiel back and spinning away from him, lifting his blade to lick up blood, Castiel hadn’t realized had been spilled. The crowd cheers, a maddening rumble of sound and Castiel lifts his arm to see a thin red line that hadn’t been there before. ‘They know what they’re doing; just let them take the lead’. That’s what Jo had said at the end, after she had handed them the vials.

There’s no doubt about that now. Castiel catches a glance of the other two, noticing belatedly that Lucifer has effectively drawn him away from Dean’s side, but despite being one eye short, Dean has managed to hold his ground. He’s bleeding, a nasty gash on his thigh, but so is Michael. He has a nick, tiny and almost unnoticeably against the red paint on his face, and judging by his face, he’s not too pleased about that. Castiel’s eyes must have adjusted somewhat to the light, to make out such details.

He is pulled out of his observations by another whirl of red approaching rapidly, and this time he’s only saved by a quick leap backwards - and probably the fact that Lucifer alters the course of his blade at the last possible moment. His eyes are cool when he dances back, giving Castiel the time to regain his footing, but there is a clear warning there. This can only work if Castiel at least tries to play his role. There’s only so much Lucifer can fake for the both of them.

Castiel adjusts his grip on the sword. It feels wrong in his hands, too heavy and off balance, but the movements come almost as naturally as they did in his soldier days. He meets Lucifer in the middle of his strike, the force of it vibrating through his arm. He’s no match for the other, wouldn’t even be at the height of his physical strength, this much he can tell, but Lucifer isn’t fighting at full force yet.

A strangled cry cuts through the battle fog that has wrapped around Castiel’s mind, followed by another wave of cheers. Castiel’s arm falters in the middle of his movement, Lucifer’s attack cutting cleanly through his defense and into his side, but Castiel doesn’t feel the pain. He stumbles backwards, tries to look at the source of the cry but the world is swimming in front of his eyes. Strangely, it’s the wound on his neck that hurts the most, a constant pulse of dull pain.

There’s another aborted sound, a strange mixture of a gurgle and a scream and then nothing but silence. Lucifer’s face swims into vision, a worried expression that has no business being there and then Castiel’s mind catches up. “Dean.” He croaks and Lucifer looks away for a moment, catching the eye of his brother and when he looks back at Castiel and nods, he can feel all the strength drain from his body. He has a hand clenched at his side, warm and sticky, but that’s more a conditioned response than actual thinking.

Castiel doesn’t know how he’s still on his feet, he should be on the ground, but something in him is holding on. The jeering crowd has faded into the background, they no longer matter. Castiel steadies his stance, fingers closing around the vial and he nods at Lucifer. The side where the blade hit him feels oddly cold, like it no longer belongs to his body. He lifts his blade, grasping it with a hand that barely has the strength to hold on.

His attempt at parrying the blow is barely worth the mention, but that is not what counts. Castiel crashes the vial in his hand; the bite of the glass shards is a sharper pain than the wound on his side is. Something wet trickles over his hands and he squeezes tighter, making sure that at least some of the liquid gets into the wounds. And then Lucifer’s blade is there, out of nowhere, and there is no strength left for Castiel to react and it cuts a line through his chest, thin and geometrically straight and Castiel falls, the whole world dissolves into a glaring white. If this is what dying feels like, it isn’t nearly as bad as he thought, is the last thing floating through Castiel’s mind before his world bleeds out into nothing.

* * *

 

He wakes up to his body screaming in pain. For a short disoriented moment Castiel doesn’t know what happened, why he is still alive but then the memories come slowly flooding back. It only makes the headache flaring in his skull worse. But that side effect was to be expected, Jo had warned him of that.

His first instinct is to find Dean, but it’s hard to make out anything in the dark. The only light falls in through a pale rectangle, moonlight streaming in through a window. Castiel is lying on a soft bed, and as his eyes adjust to the darkness he can make out another bed next to his with a softly moving mound on top of it. Castiel feels an immense relief, and he just allows himself to breath until the headache finally subsides. Jo told them they would be brought to a safe house where they could rest for a while after the fights.

Castiel’s limbs feel as if they have been filled with lead and there is a dull throb in his side and the front of his chest, the wounds Lucifer inflicted on him. But the pain is bearable. If Jo’s other predictions are true, his wounds have been treated and properly dressed. The poison in the vials caused their blood flow to decrease, putting their bodies into a state of almost-death. Everyone would think they were dead, the best possible escape. It was a risky thing, but it served well enough to save quite a few Fighters.

Dean had asked Jo why she chose them and she had laughed. “A stroke of luck,” she had said. ”You are paired with the devils and also I like you.” Her eyes had been twinkling an arbitrary streak of mischief and Castiel had been struck by the sudden thought that maybe she was mad. They could after all have been mass murderers of children, and she apparently didn’t waste a thought on that.

She must have had seen something in his face though, because she had grown solemn then, her mouth falling into a thin line. She had leaned in and kissed Dean through the bar, but all the while her eyes had stayed on Castiel with a cold hard glimmer in them. ‘”My father was framed for a crime he didn’t commit.” She had said after she had pulled back slightly. “He died on the Marble. Charlie’s parents were in the council, but they spoke out against the Master’s war politics.” She had looked over to the third woman, a red head who is busy dancing for a group of leering Fighters. “Her mother was raped and then sold into slavery, her father ended here. And Meg-“

“Alright.” Dean had interrupted her. “We get it.”

“Point is, half of the people here are innocent.” Her eyes trail over the room, calm and with assertiveness that seems so out of place on such a young face. But then again, Castiel had reminded himself, with what she must have been through; she was way beyond her years. A loud giggle had sounded from the other side; one of the Fighters had just groped Charlie. Castiel hadn’t noticed it before, but now he could hear the fakeness in her laughter.

Another one of the Fighters had called over to Jo to join him then, and Jo had turned him down with a smile and a saucy comment, but Castiel had seen the irritation in her eyes.

“How did you get Heckle and Jeckle to join you?” Dean had asked, eyeing the two devils with a raised eyebrow. Jo had snorted then, only to giggle moments later and call Dean a ‘bad boy’. She was only upholding pretense, and Castiel could feel the year-old routine behind it.

“Honestly, I have no idea myself. I think Michael is truly in it because he believes in the cause, but Lucifer,” She points to the man with Meg on his lap, “is only in for the hell of it. But sometimes it seems like the other way round. It’s hard to tell with these two.” She shrugs, going back to business in a heartbeat. “What is it then, deal or death?”

They hadn’t thought long about their answer after that.

Castiel carefully sits up. Jo assured them that they would get proper care and all, but as a doctor he only trusts a stranger’s work so far. He winces as he moves his hands to push down the blanket; he had forgotten about the cuts in the one hand he used to crush the vial with. Jo had said that drinking the liquid was too obvious in front of so many people, so this had been the only way. There’s a bandage around his hand and he can barely move his fingers. As far as he can tell no nerves are damaged, but it still hurts like hell.

“Cas?” Dean’s eyes are open but his face is in a grimace. He must be suffering from the same headache Castiel had earlier and he smiles in sympathy. “You’re alright.” The relief in Dean’s voice is evident and he tries to push himself into a sitting position. Castiel quickly gets up from his own bed and walks over the short distance to Dean’s bed. He’s anxious all of a sudden, his own injuries temporarily forgotten. He doesn’t know how Michael cut him down, and he might not yet be out of the woods.

“I’m fine.” Dean chuckles tiredly, lifting an arm up to lace his fingers through Castiel’s. “Really, he didn’t hit me too badly, just a lot of minor wounds.” He pulls at his hand and Castiel relents and lets himself be dragged down on the bed. He’s careful, mindful of both their states but just being in Dean’s arms again - in freedom - has him feel lighter than he has ever before in his life. This time he won’t trust the peace until they are safely out of range, but for the moment he can just relax. Jo promised them that they would be safe here.

They are dead after all.

_The End_


	16. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this it. The final installment of this fic. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it.

The man is huge, broad shoulders, paw-like hands, a mane so shaggy that birds could nest in it, but the moment Castiel lays first eyes on him, he seems deceptively small. “Dean?” His voice is shaking and he drops the bucket he had been holding in his hands. His eyes are hazel and wide, and he looks at them as if they were ghosts- Castiel can see him tremble, burdened with the urge to move, yet he remains rooted on his spot.

His eyes dart between them, stumble Dean’s face as he takes in the eye patch, only to dart back to Castiel, struggling to take it all in, to understand why they are here. Finally though his eyes settle on Dean and there is a vulnerability to his stance that moves Castiel.

“Hey Sammy.” Dean’s voice is rough, heavy with emotions and Castiel steps back to give them some space. The journey had been long and slow, both of them hindered by their injuries and a slow healing process. Castiel’s wounds are mostly healed, a thin white line on his neck, a raised red line on his chest and an ugly red spot on his side where he pulled the sutures a few days ago. Dean is in similar shape, covered in new scars and old ones, and a black eye patch that makes him look like a bandit.

Castiel watches as the brothers finally hug, all the tension flooding from Dean’s shoulders as he’s welcomed home. The sight is bittersweet. Dean had told Castiel a lot about his brother during the past two weeks, eyes bright with memories as he recalled their childhood. He can see now that Sam must feel similar, if the way he’s shaking, crying and smiling all at once is any indicator of how he feels. But Castiel can’t help the feeling of longing in his chest, for his own family to welcome him home like that.

But then Dean pulls away and turns half around, eye bright and wet with tears and he stretches out an arm and Castiel comes, will always come when Dean calls. “Sam, this is Castiel.” Dean’s eye is wet, and he’s almost shaking as badly as Sam, but his smile is brilliant when he laces his fingers through Castiel’s to pull him to his side. “He saved my life.”

Castiel stretches out his hand for Sam to take, but Sam bypasses it to pull him into an enthusiastic hug. He’s beaming and Castiel can’t say if it’s because of what Dean said or if he generally has a welcoming personality.

The hug is firm and longer than even Castiel knows is appropriate. He pulls away and there are new tears in Sam’s eyes, but he’s smiling and Dean is smiling too, so Castiel pulls his own lips into a smile, and it all must look rather dumb, three grown men standing on a patch of grass in front of an old house, smiling and crying.

A gruff looking man appears from the house, eyes shadowed by an old cap, but the way Dean lights up even further at the sight tells Castiel that he’s a friend. “Bobby.” Dean is grinning now, tears all dried and forgotten and before he can say anything more, he’s pulled into a firm hug accompanied by a few very choice expletives.

Somehow they all end up inside the house, seated around a rickety table on equally rickety mismatched chairs. Each has a steaming hot cup of what Castiel assumes to be tea in front of them. The moment of melancholy is gone from Castiel’s mind. This is Dean’s family, and while Castiel isn’t related, he feels like he’s already a part of it. It might help that Bobby had grumbled something about family not ending with blood when Castiel protested being called ‘son’ after being pulled into a rather awkward one-armed hug.

It might have helped that Dean told him the same he told Sam.

Dean is currently talking; hands clasped around his cup as he watches the steam rise steadily. Castiel already knows the story, most of it at least, and sometimes when Dean falters, Castiel is there to pick up the thread. Bobby and Sam stay silent throughout the story, but Castiel can read it clearly in their faces what they’re thinking. Sam is particular upset, but Dean smothers any attempt at an apology. And there’s no lack of conviction when Dean tells him that he would all do it again, if it means Sam is save.

Bobby cooks them dinner later, and they eat it together in an atmosphere that Castiel has missed for years. His family had always been rather cold and distant, but he did have a few friends at the guild and they would eat together, laughing and reminiscing. It is similar now. Bobby and Sam tell them about what happened during Dean’s absence. Sam confesses to having worked on a recue plan for Dean while he was still in the mines, but Dean beat him to it, breaking himself out and subsequently getting caught and sentenced to death.

Bobby grimly adds that it would have been more of a suicide mission, which has Sam deliberately avoiding Dean’s eye.

It’s an awkward moment, but then Dean smiles and takes Castiel’s hand. He doesn’t say anything more, but everyone present understands what he’s saying. There’s still a hint of guilt in Sam’s eyes, but he keeps looking at their joined hands and Castiel can see that he’s working over it in his head.

Dean had told him that neither Sam nor Bobby would make a big deal out of it. Castiel knows that while homosexuality is rather common in bigger cities, especially with aristocracy, country folks aren’t as accepting. But Dean seemed to have been right.

They decide to go to bed shortly after, it had been a long journey and both Dean and Castiel are exhausted.

Bobby’s house is rather small, not built to hold a family of four, but no one really cares that they have to crowd. Both Bobby and Sam offer up their beds, but after one short exchange of glances with Castiel, Dean refuses. After sleeping on the floors of old cabins or on grass patches out in the open, a blanket on Bobby’s kitchen floor is more than enough. Besides, it’s nice to sleep next to a warm fire place. Temperatures are decreasing rapidly after the summer glow is over and the nights have been uncomfortably cold, even with each other as a heat source.

The house is quiet, except for the crackling of the fire and Dean’s soft breath that tickles Castiel’s ear. Dean is asleep, but Castiel can’t quite find rest yet. He spent the last two weeks constantly on edge and it’s hard to let go of the vigilance. But there is something about this place - and the people that live here - that intrinsically feels safe. The house itself is in a remote area, the next village a considerate distance away. It’s peaceful and simple, but Castiel thinks it might be exactly what they need.

And while the hours slowly pass, Castiel thinks of the life they could build here. Dean told him that Bobby is a carpenter like Dean’s father had been, and even though he’s way outside the surrounding villages, people regularly come over to ask for his services. Dean could help him, or he could find something else to do. Dean is crafty and Castiel is sure he would like the peace.

Castiel himself could work as a doctor for the village folk, usually remote areas like this have no access to medical treatment. They couldn’t stay with Bobby of course, his house is too small. But considering that Bobby is a carpenter and Dean has the experience, that shouldn’t be a problem.

He falls asleep eventually, lulled into pleasant dreams by Dean’s warmth and his own exhaustion, dreaming of a future that finally looks bright again.

* * *

 

The next morning Castiel is woken by Dean’s straying hand in between his legs. It’s a nice feeling to wake up with his body already buzzing pleasantly, feeling suffused with warmth that reaches into his fingertips. Dean gently pushes his hands away when he tries to reach for him, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple while he continues his strokes. It’s lazy and sweet, and Castiel is soon gasping softly into the insistent press of Dean’s mouth.

His orgasm is like a slow wave, sending a tingle through the whole of his body until he feels like he’s floating. Dean keeps kissing him through the entirety of it, and for a long time afterwards.

“Morning.” He smiles down at Castiel, skin crinkling slightly around his eyes - the eye patch removed for comfort. Despite the ugly scar running through his left eye it’s the most beautiful sight in the world to Castiel.

* * *

 

If Bobby suspects them of doing anything inappropriate on his kitchen floor, he doesn’t let on. Dean and Castiel help with breakfast, and while it’s still cramped around the table, Castiel feels very much at home there. After breakfast Sam asks Castiel about his profession, and after Castiel mentioned he used to collect his own herbs, he insists on showing him the herb garden he’s been growing at the back of Bobby’s house, mostly for cooking but he also got a few medical herbs in Case they might need them. Castiel is unsure, but Dean smiles at him reassuringly and Castiel lets Sam lead him out the back door.

The garden is small, barely more than a square meter, but Castiel can tell that it is tended to with care. Castiel is well-known when it comes to herbs and their medical use, but he knows little about what they actually need to grow. He asks Sam about it, who in return wants to know everything about their medical use - as far as there is one. He has known Sam for barely more than a day, but he can already feel a familiarity form between them.

He finds he really likes Sam.

“We don’t have a doctor here, you know.” Sam is crouching down, one hand buried in a patch of parsley, that he only grows because Bobby is apparently addicted to the stuff, but grows like weed and survives long into the winter. ‘A real pest’ as Sam had put it. Castiel raises a questioning eyebrow and Sam shrugs noncommittally. “All I’m saying is, there is a place for you here. Not just because of Dean.” Sam looks up at him, smiling warmly and even in his crouched position it is evident how tall he truly is.

Castiel doesn’t quite know what to say. So he simply inclines his head and Sam’s smile widens. “Good.” And just like that they have an understanding.

There’s a tense silence in the house when they come back in. Bobby is drying the last of the dishes, while Dean sits in the small living room and stares a hole in the wall, but looks up the moment he hears them entering. Dean smiles at Castiel, a bit tight-lipped but his eyes are soft.

“Don’t tell me he got it all in the wrong stomach?” Sam asks without any preamble. Bobby just snorts.

“What did you expect?”

Castiel looks from Dean to Bobby and from there to Sam, but neither of them yields any answers. Dean is frowning darkly and glowering at his brother, who has thrown on what must be his most impressive scolding glare. “Dean.” He says sternly and Dean visibly shrinks in on himself.

“What is going on?” Castiel asks quietly, not sure if he wants to draw any attention to himself at the moment. Both Bobby and Sam stare at Dean who glares at them before turning back to Castiel.

“Bobby offered me to help build us a house nearby.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow at him. “So?” He would have been pretty shocked, but after what Sam just offered to him it only seems to be the logical consequence. Still that doesn’t quench the enormous feeling of gratitude currently blooming in his chest. But Castiel understands that Dean has made a big deal out of this for some reason, and what little Castiel knows about this makeshift family, it’s that they would go very far for each other. Dean just didn’t seem to have understood that yet.

Dean gapes at him. “So? This is fucking huge Castiel.”

“It is.” Castiel quietly agrees. He looks up at Sam, whose eyes are bright and faintly wet and he can’t help the smile on his lips. There’s something going on here, he can’t quite grasp, but he already knows that Sam has accepted him into the family. And judging by the warm look on Bobby’s face, he’s not far behind.

“It is.” Dean echoes dumbly, slumping back in his chair with an awestruck expression on his face.

“Of course if you don’t want to stay around…” Sam starts and Dean just groans and collapses his head into his hands.

“You can’t all live here.” Bobby grumbles from the kitchen door, annoyance not quite masking the fondness. “I merely suggested helping you build something for the two of you. I built my own house after all, I have the experience and I can’t let you put four posts in the ground, put a board on top of it and call it a house. I think our new doctor deserves better than that.” With that Bobby stomps back into the kitchen, clearly put off by this much affection displayed at once. Castiel feels very warm all of a sudden.

“I can build my own house, thank you very much.” Dean calls after Bobby, with a tone that very closely borders on pouting.

“Then prove it.” Bobby barks back and Dean’s face falls.

“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?” He asks no one in particular.

“You did.” Sam grins and claps a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll be fine. You have Cas.” He winks at Castiel when he says the last words and Castiel smiles back half heartedly, still overwhelmed with what just happened. The dreams he indulged in last night seem very much real all of a sudden.

“I guess I’ll have to build us a house then.” Dean says weakly once Sam has walked out, beaming and with a certain spring to his step.

“You better.” Castiel smirks and leans down to kiss him.


End file.
